Unprepared

Both J and I have felt unable to settle today. Some days you sort of manage and other days, you wonder how you'll ever manage again. I wish so much for my bears, for their lives and I never imagined one life would be lived in another part of the multiverse without us.

I know we're here on this planet to learn lessons before we set off again on a new adventure, but I fail to see a lesson in separating a parent from their child in this way and siblings from each other. I guess I'll find out one day, but I remain feeling it all, while also feeling uncomfortably numb.

Sometimes I find that writing it all down is my way of silently screaming at the universe, while maintaining a look of a swan delicately paddling along the surface of a beautifully mirror-like lake.

Nothing prepares you for losing a child; for coping with the passing of time, maybe watching your other children or those of friends, your child’s peers, growing up. No-one can express to you the utter joy coupled with heartbreak at every milestone, as you see your children’s accomplishments in life, a cause for such celebration and pride; knowing that someone very special will always be missing.

There’s this feeling of duality and the need to escape, but where to? Where can you possibly go to run from this feeling? Do you even want to really escape? Everything that is happening is because you feel so much love for the person who is no longer with you in the physical.

When I see photos of my son, Ben, I find myself really studying them now; examining every aspect of every feature. The way his eyes would light up when he was talking about something he was interested in like trains, or the way they would be screwed up tight in laughter when he had said something to make his sisters giggle or we’d all been having a tickle fight.

I think sometimes that if I stare long enough, the image of him might move and he’ll become animated and start talking or reminding me of the memory and feeling at the time the photo was taken. I want him to be real again. I want him to be here, present. I still imagine him and think I even catch him out of the corner of my eye sometimes, standing outside the backdoor smiling or see a shape of him walking down the stairs and when the lights flicker madly in the lounge at night for no reason, I trust that it is him and not just a faulty dimmer switch.

When I feel brave enough and like I can hold my tears in for a moment, so as not to distort my vision, I turn to the myriad of videos I have taken on my phone and watch them for a moment, listening in earnest to his voice, his giggle, his incessant chatter and excitement about all things Lego or Marvel. 

No-one prepares you for the silence in the bedroom where they once slept or played games with their siblings and friends. The dust definitely gathers; and the animals are drawn to lie on his duvet sometimes, recognising his absence and the need for his energy in our lives.

The view out of his bedroom window remains beautiful; the South Downs and yesterday, there was the most incredible double rainbow and I thought … it’s because it’s 101 weeks without him. Quite a milestone in my heart and mind.

No-one explains how it might be for your other children, when their sibling dies. It’s sometimes so heart-breaking to watch. The dynamic in our household is notably different. It feels wrong, but yet, it’s how it is now; and we are slowly becoming accustomed to the lack of shouting and giggling, arguing; and finding that the house, although still a home with somewhat boystrous (on rare occasions) children in, it is generally a much quieter one these days. The girls are nearly two years older now and the landscape is changing, just as their needs and focuses are.

Our youngest is now officially older than her brother got to on this earth and our eldest is almost sixteen. Ben’s life was cut short and remains so present and distant at the same time.

I find that parents think more deeply about the memories; Ben’s last day here, the fact that we won’t see him again … at least, not for a long time and the constant undulating between finding ways to cope through the day and silently, in tears, so not able to cope at the drop of a hat.

The girls are getting older and my youngest actually said the other day and she and our eldest want to try and get through it all, make their way in the world; not forgetting their brother, but rather trying to move gently away from the sadness of the situation surrounding his departure from this world instead. I am so proud of them both for having similar views, but at the same time, I don’t want Ben to be forgotten and some days, because it’s so hard without him, it feels like it’s only James and I who speak his name. I know that’s not true, but it’s how it feels.

Two years ago today, our family went to see Toy Story 4, all together. It was to be the last movie we ever watched as a family of five and the memory popped up on Facebook today. I had a good cry at the time; and I had a good cry today. I was never prepared for any of this. I will never be prepared for living my life without one of my children. I will always feel unprepared for so much, which is why I need to find my balance.

Writing always helps and today is no different. I feel calm when I write; it helps me focus the mind and heart, gives me a voice and helps me retain balance, so I can cope with my unpreparedness for bereavement.

I watch movies to inspire, I walk the dogs and I even run occasionally, to distract the mind and find the light, the sparkles, the rainbows and the magic again.

We have three beautiful children, always and I’m so grateful for the years we had the chance to be all together. It is hard not having the joy of seeing Ben growing up with his sisters, after all they all went through, but I have a feeling still, that he would be telling me over and over to keep looking out for the magic, the sparkles of light, the rainbows; to love and live our lives to the full and never miss an opportunity for fun and laughter.

I will try.

Love to you all xxxxx

Our precious family of five xxx