13 Mar The long way round…

March 2022

Life grinds to a halt when you lose a loved one. It feels like you’re suspended in a time warp – stuck between the life you knew and the life you don’t want to know. You can’t go back and dread going forward. But the clock keeps ticking and the weeks, months and years roll on whether you want them to or not.

I was desperate to stay in 2021 and 2020 and 2019 – not because they were particularly good years but because every new year without Ben takes us further away from the last one he was in.

So despite being the most horrific year of our lives – 2018 will always be special. Now it’s hard to look forward to a life so far removed from the one we expected – the one we assumed would last forever.

When a child dies you find yourself quickly spiralling into a very dark and confused place. In the blink of an eye you move to the wrong side of normal, then spend the rest of your life trying to adapt – trying to make sense of a world that feels all wrong.

A world where living hurts! Where you stand on the sidelines staring in disbelief at normal – wondering how on earth you will ever fit in again. And trying to create a new normal when you’re tired, worn out and broken is simply exhausting.

Paul and I had no grand illusions of perfection. We’re not perfect partners and definitely not perfect parents – but everything we did was driven by love. We married young (I was 18 and Paul 20) so did a lot of growing up together – naively believing we were strong enough to cope with whatever came our way. Of course we made mistakes but most of the time we were just happy and content; proud parents of four incredible children and five adorable grandchildren. We always believed family to be a precious entity and the love we shared made us strong. The heart of a home is the people in it and we loved every one more than life itself. There are no guarantees that life will be easy but our simply expectation was that we would grow old together and we would die before our children.

We felt blessed! We were blessed!

And I’m ashamed to have to keep reminding myself – we are still blessed!

But October 2018 happened and our beautiful world crumbled…

Ben (our darling precious youngest son) completed the half marathon in Cardiff, went into cardiac arrest at the finish line and died. No gradual slipping away. No warning. No goodbyes. One minute he was alive: then he wasn’t.

The lights went out.

Reset…

I still think I must be writing about someone else because things like this only happen to other people – it can’t possibly be our story.

But it is, and it did. The randomness of sudden unexpected death is like a tsunami – devastating and destroying everything in its path. 7th October 2018 will always be the worst day of our lives.

Last day together: first day apart.

End of one life: start of another.

And so we slipped into the bleakest darkest, most horrific period of our lives – aptly described by John of the Cross as the ‘dark night of the soul’.

If you’ve been there – or are still there – you will know exactly what I mean.

It is quite honestly the loneliest most soul destroying place you can imagine.

The pit of despair!

The thought of living there for the rest of my life is terrifying.

In the early days (weeks, months) I just wanted to die too. I felt numb! Empty.

I cried out to God for help. Nothing. I assumed He would ease the pain. He didn’t. I couldn’t pray. Doubts and questions just about annihilated my faith. I felt lost and didn’t know which way to turn.

A friend described grief as having its own ‘impenetrable timetable’.

It does!

That same beautiful friend recently bought me one of the most helpful books I’ve read – ‘A Grace Disguised’ by Jerry Sittser. He knows about grief and describes the aftermath of losing his wife, mum and daughter on the same day in a car crash about 20 years ago as ‘the abyss of emptiness’ His inspirational writing shows that survival is possible and reinforces the fact that grieving has no time limit. Going through the darkness is part of a vital process.

He says –

‘The quickest way for anyone to reach the sun and the light of day is not to run west, chasing after the setting sun, but to head east, plunging into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise.’

Over time he came to the conclusion that the only way to survive was to actually walk into the darkness rather than try to outrun it. He let his experience of loss take him on a journey wherever it would lead. He turned towards the pain rather than away from it and incorporated it into living.

He went the long way round!

It was such a relief to read that!! Our western culture really does try to hurry us along. We are left feeling guilty for grieving too much and for too long. We lose friends probably because we’re not the same people. We’re complicated, irrational, gloomy… and most likely over-sensitive! But there is an unspoken expectation (thankfully not from everyone) that it’s time to move on! So we disguise our pain in order to fit in and say we’re fine when we’re most definitely not!

Paul and I have been adapting to a world without Ben for over three years now – walking our own individual tight ropes of survival. Sometimes the pain is so agonising I just want to hide away. Other times I function fairly normally (on the outside) and even feel joyful.

(NOTE – You might notice sometimes I write ‘I’ and sometimes ‘we’ – that’s because although Paul and I (and the rest of the family) are on this same journey, we walk it differently. I can only confidently write from my perspective. Paul and I both struggle in different ways and at different times. There are many overlaps but often we avoid communicating our deepest feelings with each other for fear of pulling the other down. There simply Is no right or wrong way to grieve – it’s unpredictable and irregular. Sometimes we cry together other times we cry alone, but we always try to respect each other’s differences)

Missing Ben is inevitable. He’s our darling treasured child and we will love and miss him forever. That’s a given! We find ourselves instinctively drawn towards light because that’s where we feel most connected to him. We see him in every sunrise and sunset – everything beautiful and joyful and yellow! It doesn’t take the pain away but it helps keep him close.

But surprisingly, over the last few weeks something seems to have shifted. Strangely I feel a little lighter. Calmer. Not better. Definitely not fixed. Just different! It might be a temporary reprieve which often happens just before the next wave hits.

It could be that we have just had a wonderful holiday in the sun with good friends…

It could be that my 8 week course of reflexology is helping…

It could be the inspirational book I’m reading…

It could be that we’re moving from winter to spring…

It could be that I’m more aware of God responding to my groanings and whispered prayers…

Most probably it’s all of the above along with the fact that I could actually just be getting used to living in the darkness. Elizabeth Kubler Ross would call it acceptance!

I can only describe it as when you get up in middle of the night and it’s pitch black. You’re disoriented and stumble around, tripping over everything. Then gradually, your eyes adjust and after a while it doesn’t seem quite so dark. Significantly, the darkness hasn’t changed – it just that you have adapted to it and everything seems a bit clearer. You function better!

I’m not sure at what point this change happened or even if it will last. I wonder how I can possibly feel even slightly better when I’m still so broken. But I seem to be able to laugh and smile more even though I’m still sad inside. I feel more thankful for what I have rather than being consumed by our huge loss. It’s not about healing or moving on as we will simply NEVER get over losing our darling boy. Life will never go back to how it was…

It’s more about finding a way to move forward; incorporating brokenness into living.

Maybe one day I’ll even look back and say I found some purpose in the pain. Maybe the world needs the empathy only those who have known deep sorrow can give. Maybe I’m accepting that it really is possible to use my grief in a good way. Though it goes without saying – no gain can ever come close to justifying the loss. Ben’s death is not ok – death is not good. Finding good in it doesn’t make it good!

There are no shortcuts and it’s ok to walk with a limp, acknowledging there are simply some wounds that can never heal. It’s ok to be sad, it’s ok to cry and it’s ok to change plans at the last minute because we’re falling apart (again).

And there should absolutely definitely never be an expectation that anyone should use their grief as a ‘self- improvement project’ – that just sets us up for failure. If all we ever do is have a coffee and chat with another grieving person – that’s finding purpose in our pain!

I’ll always remember the people who bravely stepped out of their comfort zone and did that for me (time and time again) after Ben died.

And finally, I know without a shadow of doubt that ultimately LOVE wins! Love is so much stronger than death. It’s love that will keep driving us forward.

I can’t write about grief without being drawn to the terrible atrocities happening in Ukraine right now. My empathetic broken sensitive heart is breaking for every family torn apart by death and separation as they start out on their own individual torturous journey. And so…

I weep for my darling Ben…

I weep for all our beautiful children gone too soon…

I weep for all the broken hearts left behind…

I weep for the brutal terrifying horrors of war.

John Roedel writes…

…grief is proof that we didn’t let death win –

death wants us to feel numb

~ to feel utter despair

but when we allow ourselves to grieve

we keep the ashes from hardening

grief is the fluttering inside of us that reminds the world that although our world has burned down to the roots

there is still life within us

and if we can hold on long enough

life will eventually start pouring out of all of our smoldering wounds…

⁃ Extract from a poem by John

Credit: Ruth McDonald