Sometime during my sixth year on this planet, I was waiting for my father to bring my mother home from the hospital, where she had been receiving treatment for pneumonia. Although the sequence of events are cloudy for me at best, he came home without her. He looked terribly sad, and would not speak. Could not speak, is more accurate. I asked him 'Where is my Mummy?'
I think I would cope better if I felt more. If grief was sobbing tears, stabs of pain, or wrenching emotional pangs. Physical symptoms allow me to 'be present', acknowledge and experience them. While this mental induced exhaustion and lethargy is more of a hurdle that gets higher every time I approach it.
Five years ago my mum died suddenly from a massive stroke. She loved to cook and asked my dad to hang out the washing while she finished up in the kitchen. When he came back into the house he found her on the floor. I had seen her the night before, we had celebrated my 40th birthday.
I could tell you how amazing his smile was, I could tell you how his eyes shone when he was up to no good and that his soul was a bit wild. But my heart longs for the ‘was’ to become ‘is’ and now this will never be. This story is about my grief, which has become my connection to my son now, my son who died in March 2013. He was 18 and his name was Andy.
My eldest child died in my arms. She was twenty-five. It was the less known auto-immune disease Scleroderma. As September draws closer, I’m reminded of five-years without her.
“Life is for the living”, but is life worth living when you have lost your loved one, in my case, my partner, my love, my soul? Is it different to lose them suddenly or to have the chance to say goodbye? I don’t know the answer to that, but I know that I wish I had had the chance to.
I want you to know that I forgive you and that I hope you can forgive me too. I want you to know that I am stronger than you think and all my hidden strength comes from you.
Grief is like this person who you don’t want in your life but can’t really get rid of. Grief is like the vilest flu you can imagine. It’s constant chest pain. It’s constant fear and so much of the unknown. Being a grieving person is draining. Because some days you think you made it through then the next, you are back at square one. It never leaves you.
You left us 18 months ago, you left without goodbye, you left us all so suddenly without us understanding why. You left us with an emptiness, a void we cannot fill, you left us broken-hearted, you left a dejected will.
My beloved husband Ray died earlier this year following a long period of ill-health from asbestosis and mild dementia. I was privileged to be able to care for him at home until he died, and I will always be grateful for what I learned from him and with him in our last months together.
The call has come, my grandmother who raised me has passed. When my mother died, it was she who stepped in, put her life on hold just as she had done to raise her own two children, and embarked on the journey once again for me.
The article, 'Grief and the Body' in the autumn issue of The Rosemary Branch resonated with me. I decided to write about the rarely mentioned sport of Golf Croquet and how it supports the self-care tips of exercising, being involved in social interaction and doing activities that bring pleasure.
I remember his strong laughter; I remember his devotion to being an older brother; I remember he lived life, had many adventures
The dust from a thousand solo dances lives on the mantelpiece, in places where the dust-cloth doesn’t reach, tumbleweeds of dog hair gather and meet under the couch, multiplying every week.
I miss my Mum so much, it churns me up inside, I wish I could be with her, where our two worlds can collide.
The hardest story, to tell someone, is about a lady, who I call Mum.
Around this time last year I wrote an article for The Rosemary Branch about my Mother's death. I called it 'My Journey'. In that article I recalled my experience of bereavement and the way I processed my Mother's passing. One year on I think the time is right to write another article about where I am in this process now.
This is the picture that my six-year-old son, Matthias, drew when I asked him to draw a picture about his feelings about his great grandmother (YiaYia 2) who passed away 15 months ago.
I'm 16 year old Shel Abela. The idea for this piece came to me after losing my sister two years ago as of November 5th, from Cystic Fibrosis. i have always had a passion for knowing what lies "after death" so I decided to write all about the questions I have and my opinion on the matter. I hope you enjoy my piece.
Within hours of her death we stood in huddled mass attempting to understand the truth of the situation. Stories were told and anecdotes swapped as each of us attempted the futile task of filling the chasm of her loss with tales of the minutia from her days and the structure of her life.
If I let my shadow self take over, I would collapse in a messy jelly 'n' bone heap on the floor like some discarded, tasteless stew.
My language was initially raw, "My wife is dead" I repeated, reliving the actuality until the reality was concrete. As the weeks became months my words in turn reflected a growing acceptance, as I would answer "My wife has died".
Rory had just turned 19 when he died of bone cancer. This poem was read at Rory's funeral - written and spoken by his mother.
My mother passed away in 2008 and the occasion was the source of great sadness for me. In fact, I would go so far as to say it was the greatest pain I've ever felt in my life (and I'm now 50).
There are three rules of Cancer Club: 1. Have a party 2. Buy some shoes and 3. Go on a holiday. This is how we lived, because cancer is not about death, it is about living. Live you must when your mortality is challenged. And live we did.