A couple of weeks ago, I attended a family gathering – my great
niece’s baptism. I dislike family gatherings at the best of times but given my
experience at my great nephew's baptism only two months ago, I wasn’t looking
forward to this one.
And of course, having already tried to explain to my sister
how I had felt, whereupon she had trashed and stamped all over my feelings by declaring,
in an irritated/frustrated tone of voice, “But they’ve moved on”, I was feeling
even more apprehensive.
Nevertheless, I did my duty and arrived, card and gift in
hand, at the church. To avoid having to make pointless chit chat, I’d
deliberately arrived at the last moment. Unfortunately, several of the family
also arrived at the same time. Note to self – next time arrive very early and
hide away at the end of a pew in a small corner somewhere.
I saw my stepmother – not the nicest of women as it happens –
well never particularly nice to me. There was no avoiding any of them as they
congregated outside the church smoking. It wasn’t pleasant to stand in a smoky
haze (how the hell did I not notice how awful it was when I smoked 20 a day!)
Anyway, I’d heard she was ill and felt that it would be
impolite not to enquire about her health so I did. We spoke briefly and I
empathised, sympathised a little, and wished her as speedy a recovery as
possible. And then she said, “Anyway, here’s me talking all about me – how are
you?” And I didn’t know what to say. I knew that I didn’t want to say, “Fine” because
that would have been lying. So after what felt to me like a huge silence but in
all reality, probably lasted for a nano-second, I said, “Not great actually. I
still find it all very difficult to cope with. But thank you for asking – so few
people do ask that it feels as though Al has been completely forgotten. So
thanks again.” I knew if I said any more, that the words would be choked out of
me so I turned to walk into the church. As I did, I caught sight of my sister
smiling and saying something that started with “bet you ...” in my step mother’s
ear – and my step mother grinning before they both looked at me and laughed –
quietly of course.
I felt sick – I don’t care if it sounds selfish – how could
my grief be their source of amusement? How sick is that.
After the service, we made our way to the ‘do’. After all,
everyone knows that after dispensing with the preliminaries (making sacred vows
to raise a child in the way of the Lord), the proper business needs to be
executed - the baby’s head really needs to be wetted properly by the perfect
mixture of loud music, alcohol, buffet, and gifts. Hell, I sound snobbish. I
should say that I recall doing this for my eldest – it was traditional and what
I thought was expected. I did it less so for Al – we still had a Christening
but less of a celebration afterwards. But for my youngest, we had a naming
ceremony – that really meant something to me.
Anyway, we entered a few minutes later than everyone else did,
as I’d had to get petrol on the way. Most seats were taken but we plonked ourselves
down and I wondered how soon we could leave without being perceived as rude. As
it happened, we stayed for over an hour. I spent some time making a fuss of the
baby – she’s just perfect. Then I chatted with a cousin I hadn’t seen for some
time. Several people complimented me on my figure and I smiled politely and
thanked them.
Then my father approached me to say that he was glad I am so
well and happy. I wondered how he’d arrived at that assumption and said, “But I’m
not. My son died.”
He said, “I know.”
I replied, “No you
don’t – you say the words but you don’t know – not really. My ... son ... died.”
Again, he said, “I know.”
“Then how can you possibly think that I am well or happy? My
son died. My child died and I am drowning in grief. How can I be well? How can
I be happy?”
He then went on to say, “You don’t know it but I help you
every single day.”
I knew what was
coming so I saved him the effort of telling me. “You’re going to tell me you
pray for me aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question. He nodded. What
could I say? “How do you think that helps me?”
He nodded sagely (condescendingly), “It does. I know you
think it doesn’t but I know it does. I *know* it does.”
“What helps bereaved parents like me is actually taking the
time to ask us how we feel. Asking us what we need. Just logging onto websites
such as The Compassionate Friends or Care for the family would tell you that
what we need is to be listened to and to be allowed to grieve and not to have
our grief left unacknowledged, ignored, or ridiculed. Yes, this is how I feel
but I know I’m not alone. Just a quick glance at either of those websites would
inform anyone that I’m not unusual in this. So please feel free to pray if you
feel that is helping me but let’s be clear, you are praying because it helps *you*
to believe it helps me.” To his credit, he smiled politely, and told me that I’d
given him fuel for thought.
Of course, he won’t look up either of those
websites. He’ll carry on praying and thinking he’s helping. I guess uttering a
few words each day is easier than actually doing anything practical. I sound
angry and bitter. And it’s true. I so wanted to avoid feeling like this when Al
died.
But my family didn’t know how to handle a woman who refused
to hate the man who killed her son so they avoided me. I couldn’t grieve in a
way that they approved of – I think they can’t see it as me being *unable* to do
as they wish but as me being *unwilling* - so they abandoned me. It’s the abandonment
that has left me feeling so bitter.
Today was my first counselling session after a three-week
gap whilst the venue was redecorated. With less than 15 minutes of the session
remaining, I suddenly remembered the awful incident with bumping into the man
who ran Al over. I was gobsmacked. How could I have forgotten that? But apart
from a 5-minute conversation with a colleague and blogging about it, I’ve had
no real outlet. It happened just a few days after that baptism and, after the
way my sister and step mother had reacted to what I’d said, I couldn’t bear to
tell my family and suffer more ridicule or well meaning advice such as, “Well
if you see him again, don’t talk to him/just avoid him/go to a different
supermarket from now on/you’ll just have to learn to control your temper/just
put it behind you and forget it/get over it.”
But how am I supposed to do that when I have so few outlets
for it? When I am expected to bottle it up and not inflict it on others?
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