13 Mar Please just say his name!

‘There is no greater gift you can give someone in grief than to ask them about their loved one…

And then, really listen’

www.facebook.com/missinglovedone

It’s eighteen months since Ben died and I’m so frightened that people are forgetting about him (and us).

My aching heart is as bleeding and broken as ever. I assumed (having had no prior experience of how debilitating grief actually is) that the pain might be easing a bit by now.

But of course it’s not.

It’s still completely unbearable. The shock and horror of Ben’s death is as raw as the day it happened. I may cry less but the pain is just as sharp and the empty hole just seems to be getting bigger. Year two is definitely not easier than year one.

I’m scared now that my grief seems to be making people feel uncomfortable and I’m scared that (without meaning to) I’m pushing people away.

Life outside the safety of our family unit is lonely. I feel alienated from friends whose families are still complete. They probably feel as awkward talking about their children as I feel listening.

I am genuinely interested in what they’re up to, but there is a tangible juxtaposition of wanting, yet not wanting to know all the little details. I’m afraid of my reactions. I try to bring Ben into conversations but that feels awkward. I’ve noticed how much easier it is to only talk about my living children – yet that breaks my heart a little bit more. Ben is still our boy – still part of our family. It’s such a complicated byproduct of death and it makes me feel defensive and introverted!

It’s inevitable that Ben has been left behind but it still feels unfair and wrong. I have no choice but to make do with memories which, though precious and beautiful, are now stuck in the past. His future was sadly over before it had properly begun. I’m angry at the injustice.

Unless your child has died it must be difficult to understand how it consumes every part of living – I find it so hard to explain.

My thoughts are becoming more distorted, erratic and complicated. To add to the confusion, they change all the time. Even I struggle to keep up!

I’ve read that holding on to the pain (some may even say being self absorbed with it) is like holding on to our child. Letting go is like losing them all over again. Even the thought of that is frightening.

Ben is still my child – he always will be. I’m desperate to talk about him – to bring his name up in conversation as naturally as if he were still here. But I’m afraid of how it will be received. I love it when people refer to something he said or did. But often when I’m brave enough to speak his name, I’m either met with a sideways glance or an awkward silence!

Maybe it’s my imagination but most people seem to not want to talk about him! That hurts!

I guess some may think it’s a bit morbid or that they’re reminding us of our sadness! Not that we ever forget!

Maybe they don’t want to make us cry – but it’s actually a relief to be given the opportunity to cry in public!

Maybe they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing, so say nothing!

Even to us, Ben’s death is still unbelievable but talking about him helps us slowly come to terms with accepting the horrible reality. Apparently it’s also paramount to healing. Though trying to adjust to a life without him is almost impossible.

I’ve read articles that allude to the fact that we live in a society where most people don’t really know how to talk about grief. A feel-good culture where death is uncomfortable – one that promotes only positive thoughts!

I remember thinking in the early days after Ben died that it would be different for us.

But it’s not!

It started well. During the first weeks and months we were swamped with food and gifts and flowers and cards and messages. Its all a hazy blur but it made us feel very loved and cared for. It tailed off by around six months and by the end of the first year it was pretty much over.

We became just another a tragic story. One that people probably still talk about, just not to us!

It’s as though we were given permission to grieve up to a point (not sure who decides when that point is) then the expectation is to slot back into normal life. But the reality is that healing from this type of heartbreak takes a lifetime. There is no closure following the death of a child. Normal has gone and we can’t just ‘move on’. There is no end point where we simply say it’s ok now – we’re over it. Although I do accept that we have no choice but to realign our lives in order to try and live with the pain.

Friends talk about how well we’re doing or how strong we are. I’m not sure what that means – is it just that we’re able to hide our pain a bit better?

I sometimes feel that I’m a disappointment to those who expected more from me! Especially the friends who assumed my faith in God would make a difference – incidentally my faith seems to have added to my confusion. I’ve no doubt that God is helping but trusting him doesn’t in any way lessen the pain.

This expectation makes me feel even more isolated as I try to hide my confused feelings and emotions. I’ve come to realise that the cursory ‘how are you?’ isn’t actually an invitation to pour it all out! It’s too complicated and people don’t know how to react to the mess in my head.

Sometimes I think I’m going to explode so I use social media as an outlet. The stress of Ben’s sudden death is still so heavy and writing has always been my therapy. I can’t think of any other way to tell everyone I’m not ok – to explain what losing a child is really like. It’s a cry for help but I sense it probably comes across as ugly, indulgent and self centred.

Ironically, it’s often the people I know least who react with the most beautiful empathetic comments – many of my ‘pre Ben’s death’ friends stay silent. Maybe they’re embarrassed by my lack of self control or think I’m just being attention seeking. I simply want people to understand why I’ve changed so much.

Thankfully we do have some amazing friends who have tirelessly walked with us from day one. They listen. They read my long rambling repetitive blogs. They acknowledge our pain and make allowances for our weirdness. They cry with us. They don’t judge. They love unconditionally and they just seem to’ get it’!

A beautiful example of this is a few months after Ben died some dear friends commissioned a set of stunning handmade pottery mugs as a gift for every member of our family. Each ‘Ben mug’ was etched with his favourite tattoo! We were completely overwhelmed by such an awesome gesture.

Then, as I was in the middle of writing this post, I randomly received a message that made me burst into tears. It blew my mind as they had no idea what was on my mind (maybe God knew exactly what I needed and whispered a little prompt!)…

“Fi asks me everyday ‘do you want a cup of tea – in what mug’? My reply ‘Ben mug please’.

I always use the Ben mug but Fi always asks! It’s a simple thing to keep Ben alive in our lives, and we have lots of cups of tea every day.”

How beautiful!! They simply speak his name.

Interestingly Ben’s friends unreservedly talk about him all the time. Maybe their generation has less inhibitions about death!

As long as I live I’ll never forget these people. They probably don’t realise it, but it’s their little acts of kindness that give us the strength to keep going!!

There are other people who I’ve known for years but over recent months have lost contact with. If I bumped into them they would probably say, ’I’m praying for you’ or ‘I think about you all the time’ or ‘let me know if I can do anything to help’.

I’ve no doubt their kind words are totally genuine. But what I need most is their company, their willingness to speak Ben’s name and their acknowledgment that my grief is real. I honestly don’t know how to ask for help.

‘Sometimes, you just can’t tell anybody how you really feel. Not because you don’t know why. Not because you don’t know your purpose. Not because you don’t trust them. But because you can’t find the right words to make them understand!’

(Anon)

The simple fact is – I miss friendships that were easy and spontaneous. I miss being able to laugh freely. I miss the uncomplicated life I once had. I miss my self-confidence. I miss the animated lighthearted chats about trivial things. I miss living without the pain of a broken heart. I miss having a complete family. And most of all I just miss my darling Ben.

No one can do anything about that – except – every now and again, speak his name!

Everything about my life has changed…

I crave normal;

Everything hurts;

Everything!