Resilience

Something that’s come to mind in recent times, is the recognition of resilience in bereavement.

As we approach the festive season and perhaps, even worse, New Year (another year further from our darling son, for us) … or, for that matter, an anniversary, a birthday, a special occasion, to me it feels like putting on an extra special cloak of protection. In Ben’s eyes, it would be some sort of superhero costume, ready to withstand all that is to come.

In our life before, Christmas has always been about fun, hope, indulgence, kindness and laughter; the bringing together of family, the connecting with friends, long walks in the cool, crisp air after the roast dinner, with the children giggling - or, inevitably bickering and then a cosy afternoon, sat by the fire playing a board game or watching whatever Christmas movie happens to be on the television. If my sister and I ever got our way, we would put on The Slipper and The Rose, a retelling in musical version, of the story of Cinderella, with full on silly humour and ridiculously over-stated costumes and wonderful tunes, the script of which we both know word for word; something that did and still does embarrass all three of my children!

When I hear from and speak with other bereaved parents, I realise that I’m not alone in finding Christmas and New Year really difficult. With Covid 19, it feels like the celebrations have begun in September this year and people have been putting up their trees, fully decked out by November and counting their blessings and just enjoying the ‘magic’ of Christmas incredibly early. And why not?

However, for those of us struggling with the loss of a child, Christmas when it’s all about fun and living life to the full, feels virtually impossible. I remember last year, walking into HMV for a five minute browse to get something for my husband. The moment I walked towards the counter to pay, ‘The Chain’ by Fleetwood Mac, one of Ben’s list of potential ringing the bell tunes, came over the speaker and I fell to pieces at the desk. The poor, unsuspecting cashier got the full story in a few seconds and rushed off in shock to get me some tissues to wipe my tears. I then fled to the car and drove home, such was my five minute shopping trip. The noise, the frivolity and merriment was too overwhelming for me and I felt Ben was simply trying to let me know he was still present, but I wasn’t able to cope.

Over the year with all the firsts, I have built up more resilience to situations and feelings, but I am ever paranoid about anything happening to my living children and find I am aware of my own health in a way that I have never been before, either. I am knocking back vitamins like it’s going out of fashion (for your information, I have never been in or followed fashion - ever!) and trying to get out walking with the dogs every day.

As a bereaved mother, I feel some days like it’s an unspoken superpower. It’s as if, as a mother who’s lost a child, you can speak to those in the same position and know that nothing’s off limits; nothing is too much or too unusual and you are part of a community that simply understands what it’s like to face the worst possible scenario and still be here. Always trying to find a way through each day, valiantly facing the myriad of the mundane and coming up with something called survival every day.

In our Bereavement Group, we often discuss the need for resilience and care - for ourselves, but also for others and the gentle observations of how others might respond when we mention our child who has died. We recently discussed the way some flippant comments about survival when it comes to getting through a day with your children ‘still alive’ by the end of it, can really impact the day, or our wellbeing, full stop. We chatted about how some parents, who are not bereaved, feel amazing that they managed to keep their children alive through the day and how it’s such an accomplishment.

Before we lost Ben, that might have been something I’d giggled at and imitated a huge sigh of relief at the end of a weekend with the children, when chatting among friends or family, but now … now the landscape is very different. Those sorts of comments to a bereaved parent can cause lasting heartache and a huge cloud over their situation, memories or sense of well-being and purpose.

The fact is, when you’re faced with the reality of losing your child and then you actually do, you realise that you had the opportunity of life and keeping that person alive taken away. It might seem a really harsh thing to say here and perhaps it’s because I’ve already faced this sort of reality and I am sensitive and maybe over sensitive about things now. In these discussions, we inevitably come to realise that some people will never get it, they will never understand and their version of being resilient and accomplishing something, will never come close to someone else’s experience, let alone our own.

I can only imagine that if people really listened to themselves sometimes and heard what they say, that they would feel mortified by the impact it might be causing.

As a parent, you are protective over your children; but for us, as with so many other families in a similar situation, the reality is, that you can’t protect your child from cancer. Cancer is different. It has no boundaries, no care for its host and all their hopes and dreams. It takes over your life and sometimes it scurries away for a while, hovering in the background and sometimes, it stays away. For some, though, like for us, it comes back out of hiding and says ‘Boo.’ Then you are looking at the clock, always wondering if time is running out, but the fact is, we weren’t going to know until we knew.

Being told there is nothing more that can be done for your child; there is no miracle-saving option, that your dreams, your life as you knew it in all its normal understatedness, is never going to be repeated or continued as you had hoped, is something that I am not sure I can even do justice by putting into words. It gives the word ‘resilience’ a whole new meaning.

I felt sick. Sick, scared, heartbroken, hopeless and when I looked into my son’s eyes that day, knowing what I knew, love.

It would be lovely if people, especially after Covid, could recognise a little more about compassion, kindness, thought before making comments that might be really hard for some to hear, especially those dealing with situations most of us can only ever (thank goodness) imagine.

Maybe bereavement isn’t always something we need to be resilient about, but it might be the case until grief and dying is more openly discussed, so that those who, thankfully do not know how it feels to lose a loved one, especially a child, might be able to understand a little more. It might give those who are bereaved a moment where they don’t need to always worry about how those around them are feeling when they mention their child’s name, or put their name in a card, especially over Christmas. It might give them an understanding that will allow some of the barriers us bereaved parents put up to protect ourselves and our living children, to come down a little.

I don’t want to spend my life feeling I have to wear an invisible mask or a superpower cape, even though some days it’s something I am very grateful of and proud to do. I don’t want to always feel I have to be resilient to the world; it’s too exhausting and not how I want to live my life or how my children would expect me to either; all three of them.

It’s not as shiny without our Benny, but yet he glimmers in the sunlight and crackles in the air when we’re all together and he, as my girls do, through all of this, somehow makes me feel like I can accomplish anything.

Bigbury on Sea, Devon, 2019