Why should we have to pretend to be so bloody positive

Last week, one of my colleagues invited me to a pamper day that she’s been involved in arranging. It’s being held to raise money for Derian House, a local children’s hospice. It sounds lovely – local businesses will be donating their services free of charge with 100% of the profit going to support the hospice. There will be people on hand to do hair, nails, hand massages, a fashion show, and all kinds of other ‘girlie’ activities.

It all sounded great and I was tempted – particularly as it was in support of such a worthy cause. I’d already decided that if my youngest didn’t fancy it, I’d still make some sort of donation.

Then she told me that a local mum whose child had died in the hospice was going to give a talk. I was impressed – at least it wasn’t just a load of do-gooders wanting to display their own worthiness but the very people who would benefit were also allowed to participate. But then she quickly added, “But it will be upbeat – because she’s that kind of a person – because they are at Derian house – very upbeat – it’s not a place for misery.”

“Interesting!” I thought. “Are you actually aware that kids go there to die?” The hospice might make their final days as fun as possible but you seem to be forgetting the reason why they are there in the first place.” It’s as if we have to pretend that, ‘OK there’s a bit of hurt out there but let’s not dwell on it - it’s all jolly, jolly, jolly and let’s just focus on the jolly now shall we dear – there’s a good girl.’

She often speaks of her close friend who lost her husband to Swine Flu last January and describes her in such glowing terms because, “She’s such a positive person.” It occasionally feels like a (VERY SLIGHTLY veiled) hint that I’m not positive enough.  

Yesterday, as she once again banged on (Yes that’s exactly how it feels) about a bereaved person being ‘positive’ it hit me that the reason I feel that I need to talk about the negative aspects is that I am rarely given permission to do so. In the same way that nearly everyone wanted me to hate, and rant and rave about the man who ran Al over, I never felt the need to do that. In fact, I naturally, without any prompting, adopted the opposite perspective and was genuinely shocked when others seemed surprised by my stance. How could they not feel horror for what he must be going through? I clearly recall sitting in the hospital feeling shocked at my sister’s antipathy towards this man and thinking, “He has to live with this for the rest of his life. Have a little pity for him.” As everyone around me wanted me to hate him, I felt nothing but pity. I worried about the pain he must be going through. I know this was partly a defence mechanism to stop me facing my own pain but, apart from that incident when I bumped into him, my perspective hasn’t changed. And, believe me, I’ve had plenty of time to become acutely aware of my own pain.  

I think that although his learning difficulties caused him to kill Al, they will probably also protect him from the full impact of what he has done. They might well be his saving grace – and why should anyone suffer more than they are already suffering. All the suffering in the world won’t bring my son back to life.

Much of my torment in the early days was caused by feeling unheard by those who wanted me to hate that man. And yet I know of other parents who have said that they felt so angry and unheard when others did nothing but remind them that the person who ran over their child must be suffering. They were in the depths of torment and were being told to focus on how awful the person who had caused that torment must be feeling.

I think I was placed on some kind of pedestal after Al died because I was able to be so magnanimous towards the man who ran him over. I was seen as good, and nice, and forgiving by some. OK I was seen as a deluded nutter by others but they put this down to my being insane with grief. Neither approach was really helpful.

I was still me. I am nice. And I can also be forgiving, and kind, and gentle, and caring, and loving and yes, I have so many other ‘positive’ traits. And OK yes, I can feel angry, and vengeful, and bitter and critical, and be whiney and have lots of other negative traits – probably more than I care to notice.

Hell’s Bells! I sound almost ... err... human. Fancy that - a bereaved mum who is also human.

However, because I was unable to be the exact person that people wanted me to be, they dismissed my coping strategies – and therefore me. This happened in the weeks straight after he died and, for those who had initially seen me as such a good and worthy person, right up to the present when I still find it difficult to hide the hurt I feel when I am so dismissed.

It seems to me that the most important thing to hear when you are a bereaved parent is that people understand your perspective. Damn it, all we want is a little empathy. It seems ironic that that is the one thing that so many are incapable or unwilling of providing.