It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

She died in an accident. He told us about it over dinner. The easy conviviality was abruptly interrupted. Pleasantries were pushed aside. I shivered. Tomorrow the family would assemble to celebrate what would have been her ninth birthday. A three year old missing for 24 hours and found dead following gas explosion at her family home. The tragedy was as surreal as it was horrific.

Her 11 year old cousin had apparently commented upon the anticipated ritual, remarking to his sister, "she's in a better place" before reconsidering his statement, and finding it to be inaccurate. How could she be in a better place, without her mother, father and brother? Where was she? Explanation was not forthcoming.

Grief is very personal. Outliving one's child defies reason. So, her mother will prepare a birthday party for her absent child. Balloons will be inflated, banners hung and cakes baked. Guests will arrive, but will not bear gifts. They will come together knowing they will not see the birthday girl. They celebrate a life cut so brutally short. A life that could have been.

There will be acknowledgment of this child's untimely death. The family will visit her grave. Her cousin could not conceive of her being there, and yet something is there. Something tangible. They will perhaps sit there awhile.

But, for the most part, the gathering will be of an altogether different nature. There will be sugar, and spice and all things nice. There will be bright colours, and music. There will be laughter, and there will be comfort for a mother grieving the loss of what never will be. The unbearable will be made just a little gentler.

Death and ritual are comfortable bedfellows. Human frailty means we are inclined to cling to anything that gives substance to that which challenges rationality.

I have come to see this in my work with those who are left behind when someone disappears. Unlike this family, who know exactly what happened to their baby girl, those who contact the charity Missing People have only maybes, possiblys and probablys. On some days these suffice, but mostly they do not. There can be no closure. There are no stages. Different theories abound, even within the closest of families. When someone goes missing, those who loved them are left suspended in limbo.

Comments

Table. Apple. Penny.

Whilst there were several places I might have been that morning, I wouldn't have been anywhere else. The practitioner from the Memory Service arrived promptly. I liked her instantly. Mum was nervous. I think I was a little, too. It's been a difficult year. "It's Friday, it's the fourteenth of December and I'm at home..." No problems there. CAMCOG, or the Cambridge Cognitive Examination is a thorough assessment tool used to assess the extent of extent of dementia, and to assess the level of cognitive impairment. The standardised measure assesses orientation, language, memory, praxis, attention, abstract thinking, perception and calculation. "Table. Apple. Penny." Three everyday items that were introduced at one point, and then referred to again later on. Again, Mum was able to recall each. I am reminded that the only three certainties in life are old age, sickness and death. Not

Glass half full? Glass half empty? Or perhaps the glass is broken

I am, constitutionally, a glass half empty gal. I will always first acknowledge what I don't have, what I have lost, and what it is that I am seeking. I tend to overlook my strengths, concentrating only on those bits of me that are underdeveloped or weak. I refer to myself as a realist, but in doing so compliment myself and insult those who genuinely are simply realistic. My modus operandi is to identify what's not working and acknowledge this before seeing more clearly what functions perfectly well. This has its place: I edit others' written work pretty well. My fastidious attention to detail serves me, and the author. Accuracy counts, for me and I have an excellent memory. I can remember a great many of my sessions with clients verbatim. Even this asset is something I can, and do, diminish the true value of, by concentrating on 'I should have said...' or 'why didn't.... occur to me during the session?' Earlier this week I was crudely

Pausing in the sunshine

And so, chemo is over. My best friend's diary has been chocker... Line cleans, blood tests, scans and 18 weekly doses of the gruelling treatment itself. Summer seems at last to have arrived and with it, we hope, some time, peace and space. She is, we acknowledged over a rather yummy luncheon served to us beneath the beautiful canopy of creepers and climbers at Petersham Nurseries, an inspiration. A small group of us gathered to celebrate her forthcoming marriage. The sun's rays joined the warmth we all have for this very special woman. Warmth and, in my case at least, pride. It is the greatest privilege to call this woman my best friend. She continues to epitomise my understanding of grace. Our bodies are fragile things. Our minds are frailer still. In her composure and wisdom, she possesses an outlook I can only aspire to adopt. From you, dear Charlotte, I learn and I learn and I learn. The only person who is educated is the one who has

The Reward is the Journey

Search This Blog