Well, it’s that time of year again and today marks 108 weeks since we lost Ben and yesterday was 25 months since he died. Grief seems to undulate in relentless waves. Some days you have what you think is a steady day, only to realise that the water was drawing back silently, only to hit you with a tidal wave the next day.
I’ve had people comment on my strength, our ability to cope as a family, our courage and determination to make a difference and be inspirational for others.
Today, as with every Saturday, close to 4.00 pm, when we are at home (which, in a pandemic is fairly normal now), James sets the steam train going and we sit, tell each other we love each other and watch the train as it pootles round the track below Ben’s bedroom window, each alone with our thoughts. Every so often at poignant times, Ben sends us a sign that he is around. Today, it was a dragonfly, landing on the chair for a few seconds as if to observe and marvel at all that his Dad has set up in his absence.
In recent weeks and months, it has been lovely to see our daughters begin to find their feet in their own lives. Time is moving forward and they are older now, not only in age, but in wisdom; the wisdom that losing their brother has thrust upon them. They are both fiercely independent, despite, hopefully appreciating our presence in times of need (who am I kidding? One teenager and one tweenager!) I feel sure that the impact of grief is something that we will only see in later years. Some children hold so much in and others find ways to distract themselves, immersing themselves in friendships, games and activities to allow their minds and hearts to focus on all that life has to offer them still. Anything to divert from the profound devastation of the landscape and sense of loss in their formative years.
It’s Childhood Cancer Awareness Month and we do our best to help raise awareness of the need for stem cell donors and the need for alternative and kinder treatments for children going through cancer.
Cancer will not define us, but grief has changed our family of five forever. It has brought us even closer, yet we are sometimes each alone in our own unique experience of loss. We keep the lines of communication open and sometimes James and I need only to share a look, to know how each other are feeling and no words need to be said.
Two years on and there are blessings, always, but the heart will always wonder what Ben might look like, even sound like now at the age of 14 years.
A couple of weeks ago, I had the privilege of spending time with my eldest and we were in a local establishment in Winchester for a drink and natter and as I was chatting to her, her face lit up in what I can only describe as surprise and shock. The look you only see when you’ve spotted someone you love in a crowd, who you’ve not seen for a long time.
She told me to turn round to the table behind us and ‘tell me that boy doesn’t look just like Ben!’ enthusiastically.
I turned and my heart could have burst on the spot. I had the same feeling reflected in my heart as I’d seen on her face. I turned back to her beaming, with tears in my eyes. This young boy could have been Ben at the age of ten years, before he was poorly. The way he was sat in the chair, his nonchalent look across to us, the flick of his light mousy brown hair, flopping across his eyes. As he left a few moments later, he was dressed like Ben would have been and even walked like him. This sort of experience has happened to me a few times before in my life and I always feel that somehow our loved ones are able to lean in to someone and show you their expression, just for a brief moment, to let you know they are still around, keeping a close eye on you. This is when I feel hope again. The fact that I was there to experience this with my beautiful eldest, was such a blessing.
So, as we turn sit in the afternoon sunshine, looking to the skies and thinking about the months ahead, I am forever grateful for our family of five and while I don’t always feel strong, I will always endeavour to shine a little light for others as best I can on this journey through child loss and hope that life still shows beautiful magic for my children as they grow and find their way into all that life brings.