One of the things I was most excited about in terms of having
children, was telling my parents. Sharing it with them. Being able to provide
them with this new chapter of life and seeing all the joy it would bring them.
We obviously couldn’t have known that we would lose them
both in the space of one Summer Holiday. Although dad remains here physically, we
lost ‘him’ at the same time as mum, equal parts devastating and also strangely –
ultimately - romantic. One of the nurses said to me ‘it’s like a real life
version of The Notebook’…. Which, ironically, is my favourite film.
I try not to spend much time pondering on ‘what ifs’ or ‘how
it could have beens’. It is a vacuous path. Unfruitful. One always laden with
sadness.
But sometimes.. when the day has been particularly
exhausting.. overwhelming. When times are a little bit tougher or I’m feeling a
little bit weaker, I allow myself to open my little bag of ‘what-could-have-beens’.
Only sometimes. Only when it’s quiet and no one else is around; or everyone
else is asleep. Sometimes I secretly open the bag and devour those little
thought fantasies about how it could have been. The times we could have shared,
the phone calls I could have made, the small victories I could have shared with
them – first drawings, first words, first day of school. The places we could
have met, their faces seeing the children, the things they would have done with
them. The pride they would have felt.
I imagine it in the greatest detail. What they might have worn,
the words they would have said, the expressions on their faces. I dare to let
myself feel the great sadness and exhaustion of life without them and their
love and the bright colour they could have brought to our lives. Selfishly, I
imagine the difference their presence and help would make. The extra hands, the
supportive words, the place to go, the hands to hold, the answers to questions.
It’s equal parts tremendous and painful. It brings the greatest smile to my face
and then the greatest pain to my body.
I try not to feel negative emotions when I see others with
their children and also their parents. I try to be the bigger person and carry
on. But there are days when it is hard. The hardest. When I feel like there’s
not a lot I wouldn’t give for just one of those experiences. One walk to school
with Florence and my mum. One coffee and cake with them in John Lewis. One day being
able to watch them with my children. Even just one more hug for me.
I can’t decide if it’s harder that dad is still physically here
or not. It’s often like extra torture that I can see him and talk to him and take
the children to see him, but he is unable to do anything in return. Sometimes
he will burst into tears spontaneously and I’m almost certain it’s because he
knows they are there and he can’t be who he wants to be to them. It’s hard not to feel angry at the universe
for that extra punch in the gut every time.
Sometimes I see someone who is wearing the same jeans my dad
would have worn, or walks in a similar way; or is carrying a newspaper how he did
and it’s like a silent tidal wave hits me out of nowhere. It quite literally
takes my breath away. Sometimes I can swallow it back down and carry on and
sometimes it paralyses me for some moments. Physically and emotionally.
I’m sad and angry that my verbal descriptions and photos and
memories will never do them justice for my children. I will never be able to make
them understand the greatness of these people in the way I want to. It’s
probably for the best; I don’t want them to feel the loss. But it’s hard. It’s
hard to silently see them miss out.
I will always provide my children with more love than they
know what to do with. But I will always know that despite this, they are
missing out on the love they would have received from my mum and dad.
Anyway, I let myself have all this for a short time. And
then I pack it all back up in my secret bag. Tuck it back down.
Then I get up… wipe someone’s bottom (not Chris’s), pick
some squashed pancake off the floor, say no to another snack approximately 47
times.. and carry on as I was.
