So here's something that bothers me. My father's grandson died and I don't know if he feels anything at all about that—I have never heard him express anything about how he feels about my son or about what he remembers about him. Is he trying to protect me or does he really not think of him?
Once I went to the church to sit for a bit, where we had his funeral, and my father’s familiar tightly sloped writing was in the visitors book marking the occasion of his grandson's funeral. It looked very formal, but it was there and it comforted me a little. Dad also came to the inquest with me and I remember leaning into him a little awkwardly in the waiting room seeking the demonstrative comfort that he didn’t really know how to give me.
I suppose that in some ways I do get it—my father lived through WWII as a young man, when many of his friends and family members would have been killed in the armed forces. His mother would have known so many bereaved parents and my guess is that they just had to get on with it. Is this the expectation? He lost his own father at a very young age. Both his parents lived through WWI which had horrific casualties and deaths. I remember my grandmother, who was born in 1886, and from what I remember nothing was talked about even though she must have been devastated to lose her husband when she did. I doubt she ever felt that she had ‘got over it’ but she didn’t ever mention this in front of me.
So my dad and I had a conversation today about my work with bereaved parents and he said a few things about “getting through it” and I corrected him. I told him the evidence was very clear—we don’t get over it or through it or past it—we live with the deep pain of loss for the rest of our lives. He said, “Yes, but it gets better.” I said, “No, it does not get better,” and I maybe said that pretty harshly. I am as devastated and sad about losing my first born son now as ever I was. Just because you do not see me weeping that does not mean things are all better. I have learned to to engage in life differently and to carry this loss at the same time—I had to change to make space for it. Not all parents find their way with that. There have been times when I thought that one of them might be me.
He printed out my leaflets for me once—the therapy guide for bereaved parents—but he didn’t read the personal account at the back, which is about me, until I prompted him and then he did show his feelings. I have only seen him cry a very few times in my life. He said, “We didn’t know how to help you.” I was touched. That had taken him eight years but I needed to hear it. What I understood was that he was upset that I was upset but had been at a loss to help. But what about my son?
Rainbows are a thing for us. My boy refracts the light for us to let us know he is here still, at least that is what we say to each other We never forget anyway, but we do always notice when that happens. I objected to Dad at one point to a rainbow being used on an aged aunts order of service for her funeral. He said, “Sam can’t have the monopoly on rainbows.” But , for me, he does and I want my Dad to get that, not just to get it but to think it too!
This is what is so isolating about losing a child. As the years go by it often feels as if everyone else, other than his brother and sister have stopped thinking about him, stopped remembering his gorgeous blond curls that grew into dark brown ones in his teenage years, forgotten the way he had to have the best football boots but didn’t care about mobile phones or designer shirts. The time he had a ‘gathering’ while I was away at my counselling course and I didn’t know until the police came round to talk to him about stealing the England flag from the village shop. My friends do remember him and they help so much when they tell me they are thinking about him. My Dad never does and that makes me feel sad and disconnected.
I guess he might read this. He is very au fait with computers and going online. He built his first computer himself back in the day, We used to joke that he could speak in hexadecimal. Sam probably inherited his amazingly agile mind from his grandfather.
That is OK Dad, if you do read this you must remember that I love you very much and this is not a criticism of you, I know you care deeply about me too and I know you have always been the best dad you can be. I just really want to know that you loved my boy and that you love him still now. I can’t ask you that question just in case you cannot answer honestly, and before many more years have passed I won’t be able to.
Perhaps I could be pleased to know that you do not suffer from the pain of this loss—why would I wish that on someone I love just so that I will feel less alone with it? This is a hard thing to find my peace with. I am working on it!