I met with another newly bereaved mum the other day. She was struggling, as you do, because her child is dead.
We spoke about many things. About suffering – the pain that’s heaped on the already immeasurable loss by new family dynamics, strained relationships and some inhospitable responses to grief. We spoke about another kind of suffering - the almighty one our children had to withstand when they were very sick. And that even when they could no longer walk or talk or swallow or sit up, this kind of suffering we could still endure, because they were still here. There was doing and being and purpose in the keeping of someone alive, as long and lonely as the days of a carer can be. And they had breath.
We talked about the moment the “novelty” of the death wares off, when the shock and awe and adrenaline of funerals and burials subsides, and whatever spirit possessed us to move through these events as halfway human leaves us, and we are left to come to terms with our new warped reality alone.
Most of all we spoke about the quiet. When the atomic dust settles and all that remains of a life is the deathly silence. It’s shocking, the noise a life can make and you don’t even know it. Until it stops.
Think of all the music that makes up a being – their laughter, their tears, the squark of their spats with siblings, their chatter with friends, the timbre of their feet on the carpet, the creak of their feet on the floorboards as they reach for food in the cupboard, their voice calling your name. Then think of all the space they take up - their place at the table, their seat in the car, their spot on the couch, their backpack on the kitchen bench, their water bottle on the sink, their head on the pillow, their body in your bed. When death comes, it vacuums all that away, sucks up all the beautiful minutiae of their existence and hermetically seals it. It’s the kind of quiet that ricochets off walls, echoes down the hallways, engulfs entire rooms. It’s the kind of silence that can make a lot of noise in your head.
For all I know, and I’ve known a bit more than I care to in the past five years, there may be a harder road, but I am yet to walk it. To the newly bereaved – you don’t need to be fixed. You are sad. This is painful. You are where you need to be.
For those that want to support – sit with them in the silence and stillness. Say their names. Tell them you remember. And don’t expect them to be any other way.
Image: Charly Mackesy