This deserves to be an eloquent post, but unfortunately it turned into a ramble. Never mind, right now it’s the best I can do…

There are lots of us in The Mothers Whose Children Have Died Club. But not enough of us talk about it and new members can feel very alone. Even not so new members can feel alone. One of the bloggers I read regularly recently wrote about the death of her daughter and the temptation there is for some to say “It’s been years. Get over it.”
Do we ever get over the death of a child? What does getting over it mean anyway?

If it means forgetting – no.
If it means getting on with living – yes.
If it means going back to the way things were – no.
If it means pretending it didn’t happen – only if you are complete fool.

Our son died at home, sitting on our sofa eating dinner and wheedling at his sister to change channels on the TV. One second we were about to have dinner and the next, well, what happened? What happens in that moment is that everything changes. Every Thing. Nothing is ever like it was. Nothing is untouched. Your whole world has a new colour layered over it that you can’t remove, like a filter on a camera lens. Every thing looks different and, after a while, you are not too sure what the world used to look like.

It’s not just death that does this to us. There are a myriad of traumatic events that people all over the world experience every day. And it isn’t even just Bad Stuff that does this to us. Falling in love does it, too, and giving birth to a child, and so does climbing a mountain.

I suppose I should be drawing some profound conclusion. I’m not sure I can. It just is what it is. It’s just life and living and being human. Life isn’t static, it moves and flows. People come into our lives and people leave our lives. No experience leaves us as it found us. Some experiences are worthy of remembrance, worthy of celebration. They’ve lead us to this place and are part of who we are. What’s to get over?

The part you DO need to get over is the sting of pain that appropriates moments it should just bugger off out of, stealing into the joyous moments of your life where it has no right to be. As you delight in someone else’s new baby, it sends you a glimpse of a little ear that you remember kissing and then sneaks up on you and wallops you hard across the back of the head.
There’s a pain in every new thing you do that doesn’t include your child. Going new places where they are not known hurts. Every new friend who never knew them is a reminder that your child is no longer physically present. You carry them with you, invisibly, and it feels as if the rest of the world is ignoring your precious child, not even acknowledging that they exist. But the truth is that only you know they are there.

That’s what you do need to get beyond, because that’s the part that can become immobilising and crushing. That’s the part that starts to inflict pain on everyone around you.

I have mostly gone past that place, but I’m not sure how. I can’t explain how to do it to other grieving mothers. I wouldn’t even presume to try. But I’m grateful.