20 Apr Absence – inverted presence…

April 2022

Inverted:

‘Changed from the normal position by being turned upside down or arranged in the opposite order’

https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/inverted

Absence is the opposite of presence. When a precious child dies everything is inverted. Our lives feel like they’ve been turned upside down and rearranged in the opposite order. Nothing makes sense! Our brains (and hearts) are simply not conditioned to accept something as devastating as the out of order death of a child – it’s disorienting, confusing and debilitating. A light goes out. The world changes colour and feels all wrong.

(NOTE: Out of order death is when children – of any age – die before their parents).

So often people say things like – they’re in a better place or God has a plan. But I honestly don’t believe children dying was ever part of God’s plan and though I believe Ben is in a better place – it doesn’t change the fact that we’re here and he’s not! There is simply no antidote for the heartbreaking pain of absence. It hurts with every breath.

Someone posted this photo on Facebook the other day and it immediately jumped out at me. Its so true…

‘Your absence walks through the door every single day!’

⁃ Helen Lyon

It really does – every single day!!

I’d never really thought about it before but I now know that you can actually feel absence. And at times it’s even more powerful than presence!

I feel it when I’m on my own but I also feel it when the house is buzzing with noise and people. I feel it on good days and I feel it on bad days. It’s simply always there because my darling boy is always missing. It causes a disconcerting paradox of anomalies…

An inverted presence.

A loud silence.

A painful emptiness.

Ben’s absence is as real as his presence – but unlike presence it doesn’t bring joy; it’s a weight that makes you feel sad, agitated, anxious, traumatised, restless, angry, irrational, foggy and a whole other myriad of confusing emotions. Living is a challenge as we try to put on a brave face and function normally – every single day. Our whole family has simply been shaped by his absence.

NOTE: Ben is our youngest child. He was 25 when he died from sudden cardiac arrest – SADS – October 2018.

‘Language does not yet have a word strong enough to describe the excruciating pain of losing someone you love’

– Andrea Addington

I’m so thankful Ben had been living at home when he died. He had chosen to trade his independence for free board and lodging in order to keep travelling. His plan (which was probably flexible) was to complete one last winter season in the French Alps before settling into a teaching career, finding his own place to live, converting a camper van and getting a dog!!

We loved having him home. He made the house vibrant and alive with laughing and singing. He was such a big presence and the best company – a morning person who as soon as he heard the drone of the coffee machine would join me for breakfast and a chat. He was honestly just one of those beautiful happy humans who made life fun and was always surrounded by friends. He inspired me to step out of my comfort zone and be more adventurous. He lived each moment like it could be his last.

Then in the blink of an eye – it was!

Now all we have left are beautiful memories and an ‘absence that walks through our door – every single day!!’ Beauty and pain.

I’d give anything for the messy utility room overflowing with wetsuits, dirty clothes and sports kit. I stand in the garden choking back tears looking up at his room. His guitar stands idle ( I can see it from the window) yet I hear him playing. I wonder if we will ever be able to move it. I imagine I can see his shadow through the glass moving around. It feels like I’m stuck in a time warp as I almost expect him to unceremoniously pop open the window and shout something down. My head tells me it can’t happen but my heart wants to believe it can.

My mind plays tricks – on one hand it feels like he’s still here; yet on the other it’s like he’s been sucked into a big black hole. My heart hurts. I just want to scream and wonder (again) if I could actually be going mad!!

God how I miss him!

In contrast the ‘empty nest syndrome’ is a very real grief some parents feel when their children move out of the family home. Many are surprised by the unexpected sadness and see it as a loss.

It can be a very lonely time as years of purposeful busyness are replaced by a sense of foreboding that life will never be the same. Some parents even say that it feels like they’ve lost part of themselves. Despite being the natural order, it often brings about a surge of confusing emotions as parents are forced to let go and adjust to a new phase of living.

But we soon discover it’s not all bad. We feel proud as we watch our offspring become adults – find their vocation, choose partners and set up their own homes. With modern technology it’s easy to keep in touch and most importantly we know we will see them again. If we’re lucky the next generation comes along and the house is once more rejuvenated with new life. We fall in love with adorable little people who are part of us but not ours!! Life isn’t perfect but we muddle through together because that’s what families do!!

But imagine the empty nest syndrome is real. Imagine your child is never ever coming back. Imagine they’re gone forever and you will never see them again. No phone-calls. No hugs. No conversations. No celebrations. No career. No disappointments. No future. Nothing – just a terrifying disconcerting ABSENCE…

and the deep debilitating weight of agonising grief and pain and longing.

‘It hurts because the story of your life had so many more beautiful chapters to it, yet the book of your life had been abruptly closed. ‘

⁃ Narin Grewall

You probably can’t go there. I can’t go there. It’s way too painful to contemplate.

Sometimes our heart needs more time to accept what our head already knows!

I still cringe as I recall walking around our local town years before Ben died – crying. One of our older boys had just left to go travelling and I didn’t know when he was coming back. I bumped into a friend, who’s twenty two year old daughter, Natalie, had recently died. Ironically, she asked me if I was ok!! I know it’s not a competition about who’s grief is worse but it instantly put my sadness into perspective. My child was still alive – hers wasn’t. She was very gracious, kind and understanding. Neither of us could have imagined that one day she would be walking with us through our loss.

She assures me we will survive.

When your child dies you have absolutely no choice but to try and adapt to a world without them. Someone (who knows) said time doesn’t take the pain away – we just grow into it. Their absence becomes part of us.

Yet even though I’m living it I still find it hard to believe and can only accept the horrific reality in small doses. I quickly have to revert to numbness or it would drive me insane. Most of the time I just find it easier to keep busy so I don’t have time to feel.

But never – for one minute – do I forget my darling boy.

Never – for one minute – do I not feel a deep pain.

Never – for one minute – am I unaware of the absence that lives in our house.

And sadly we’re part of a much larger community of brokenness – hundreds and thousands of families up and down our country (millions around the world) are learning to live in a different way because death crept in and randomly stole their beautiful precious children! Lives disrupted and changed forever.

‘Absence walks through their doors –

every single day.’

Jerry Sittser – whose wife, mother and daughter were tragically killed in a car accident thirty years ago says ‘there is no arrival in this kind of journey!’

He writes:

“In the months and years after the accident, it felt like I was standing at the base of a huge mountain of pure pain. The sheer magnitude threatened to crush me as if it were about to bury me under a landslide of despair. Now, thirty years later I still see the mountain. It’s the same size, same shape, same height – just as big as it was before. My experience of loss and suffering is the same too. It is no smaller than it was before. But the mountain is further away which means my eyes see more. That one mountain, once so foreboding and intimidating is situated in a larger landscape of experience and memory…

So much beauty and so much pain. I am still learning to live with both!”

Jerry Sittser – extract from ‘A Grace Disguised’

Credit: Ruth McDonald