Tuesday 30 November 2010

Anniversaries

November 26th 2009 should have been Al's 18th birthday. One of his friends had  persuaded a local garden centre to donate a couple of Cherry Blossom trees - one for Al's school - that's another story entirely - and one for the local park where he hung out with his mates.

Although the park is privately owned and contained no memorials, she spoke with the owners who agreed that the tree and a memorial could be placed in there in his memory. They made it clear that this would be a one-off event and that no other memorials would be placed there. His friends joined in with the planting. Then we released 18 balloons in red, gold and green -his favourite Rasta colours. Apart from the huge numbers at his funeral, that was the largest gathering of people who knew Al I have seen. A few of my family, a few friends and neighbours, and a couple of colleagues also came. It meant a lot to me that people made the effort as it showed that he wasn't forgotten. A couple of people who had said they would be there didn't turn up - no apologies, no explanations, no reference to it since either.

Afterwards, a few people came back to my place and we sat and chatted and remembered him. Later, when on my own, I sobbed in my bedroom - quietly so that my daughter wouldn't hear.

Two nights later, we had the official birthday night out. Al was born on my nephew's first birthday and a joint night out had been planned for some time to celebrate Al's 18th and my nephew's 19th. I didn't want to go yet I felt duty bound to go to ensure he was remembered. Funny Girls in Blackpool, a club featuring drag acts, was the chosen venue - Al would have found the whole event lots of fun and my nephew, being as camp as Christmas, and twice as lovely, fitted right in and had a fab evening.

When the time came for music requests, I agreed to "Queen's "Don't stop me now" (one of the pieces played at Al's funeral) being played. I didn't want to hear it but I couldn't bear him not being acknowledged. The music struck up and I was acutely aware of being observed - I couldn't even slink off to the loos for a bit of privacy without being watched - and probably followed. And if truth be told, that was what I wanted more than anything else. Of course, I sat - rooted to the spot - it was their night out and they didn't deserve to have it ruined by my morbid ramblings. I cried when I got home and I was alone - I cry when I'm alone - it's somehow easier then.

Fast-forward six months to the first anniversary of Al's death. 30th May 2010. It was the day of the Caribbean Carnival in town. The year before, we visited the Carnival for the first time. Al had a great time ogling the semi-naked young women on the floats, and later sitting in the park bumping into old school friends and catching up. He'd taken good care of me as I was still fairly poorly following a surgery I'd had a few weeks earlier.

Anyway, my youngest wanted to see the Carnival again. I was reluctant - too many memories of the previous year with Al - but she was insistent. I hoped to see the friend who went every year and had always nagged us to go - the previous year, we'd given up waiting for her after a few hours and had gone home as she'd chosen to spend the day with other friends whilst constantly texting us to say she was going to be with us soon. Anyway, this year, in response to my daughter's text asking her what time she would be there, she let us know that she wasn't going to be there at all but sent us her thoughts as she acknowledged the anniversary. I was pretty fed up - like so many others, she'd assured me of her support when Al died but was nowhere to be found when I needed it.

We went home - my youngest happy because she'd seen her friends at the park - me raw with anger and hurt. On the way home, I laid some flowers at the side of the road where Al had died.

Later my sister in law and niece joined us and we walked along the canal - a route taken on an almost daily basis by Al - and up to the road where he died. A few of his friends were there - around 5 or 6 - one of them, a lovely lad, told me that he'd asked loads of Al's friends to join them and most had said they would. He was so hurt that hardly any had bothered. I couldn't tell him that was the last thing I needed to hear - that those young people who had professed to care about my boy, had all found better things to do than spare a few minutes to join together in his memory. He was so upset by it that I didn't have the heart to tell him that he might as well have just stabbed me with those words.

I put on a brave face and we crossed over the road and went to the memorial bench, which has Al's name carved on it. I encouraged Al's friends to help me light and release some Chinese lanterns and we watched them float away. It was getting dark by then so we went home. After my sister in law and niece left, I sat and rocked and held myself as I cried - silently so as not to upset my daughter.

Last Friday, 26th November 2010, should have been Al's 19th birthday. I'd been aware of my growing resentment at people not remembering these significant dates and I'd decided that I could either continue hoping people would remember and make an effort to mention him, or I could stop expecting too much of them and simply remind them of the impending date. Once I'd made the decision, I took the bull by the horns, and made a point of telling four of my colleagues. It made no difference to the level of interest - just one of them bothered to make the effort to acknowledge the day. I heard nothing from the other three - all are employed in what could be described as the most caring of professions - go figure!

I'd been to work - I didn't know what else to do and anyway, the general opinion seems to be that I should be 'over it' by now. A few months ago, I actually overheard someone at work saying, "Look I know you can't get over something like that properly but at some point you have to get on with your life - you can hardly carry on dipping in and out forever - I don't take the day off because I'm upset about my mum dying do I? I mean - you just have to pick yourself up and get on with things don't you. I know it's different when a child dies but whatever the loss, you can't live in the past forever." I wasn't sure the conversation was about me but it was clearly about someone who had lost a child.

I didn’t let on that I’d overheard - it seemed pointless and I guess most people would agree with her. The irony is that I was back at work within 6 weeks of his death and had only taken time off to make court visits during the trial of the man who ran him over. I was functioning, attending work, making an effort with my appearance, and giving the impression of ‘getting back to normal’ but even that wasn’t good enough – I had to make it crystal clear that I was well and truly over the death of my son and even if I wasn’t, then I should just pretend so that others don’t feel uncomfortable.

Anyway, after I left work, I collected the flowers from the florist. I laid cream and red roses at the roadside and a single lily on his bench. It was getting dark by then so I went home. A couple of Al's friends had posted on Facebook asking whether anything had been arranged and I had said they were welcome to visit and share their memories of him. None did. My sister in law and niece laid some flowers by the road and then came round to visit bringing the babies with them. No one said his name but the babies, who are both so adorable, created a welcome distraction.

After they went home, I cried. I’m sick of crying.

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