From Sad to Silly: Christmas Memories Salve Widow’s Pain

By Michele Neff Hernandez –

There is a song on the radio at this time of year, sung by the Carpenters, called “Merry Christmas, Darling.”  The first Christmas after my husband Phil died, hearing this song sent me into fits of tears.  Not the sweet, sad, nostalgic type of tears-these were the hitting my hands on the dashboard or kicking my bed, angry, unreasonable type of tears. 

Every time the song came on, I wanted to scream at the beautiful voice on the radio because the sentiment was so infuriating.  The lyrics proclaim that every day is a holiday with the one you love, so even if you aren’t together on Christmas Eve, no worries, you can be together in your dreams.  At that point, I was way beyond wanting to spend Christmas with Phil in my dreams! What I wanted was to hold him, to feel his warm breath on my cheek, and to sit on the couch, side by side, sipping coffee while the kids opened their gifts on Christmas morning.

Every holiday tradition felt like a chore.  Determined to check off each task on the holiday list, I dutifully put up outdoor lights–crying yet again when I discovered how meticulously Phil had packed away the lights the year before.  The kids and I dragged the tree into the house, but the glittering lights seemed to emphasize my gloominess. 

Opening a storage box, I found old Christmas cards full of cheerful greetings and good wishes.  I sighed out loud as I read each one, thinking of how radically our lives had changed in only 365 days. 

One evening I reached into the bottom of the last plastic bin, and pulled out “Frosty.” Phil was famous in our family for the dance he did when Frosty, who played “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” at the push of a button, made his holiday debut.  Phil’s dance included booty shaking, heel tapping, and all manner of silliness–unfailingly creating throughout the house gales of laughter. 

No one could look at Frosty without giggling, because Phil’s dance was so outrageous.  The kids would even try to get him to perform for their friends; they were always thrilled when he was successfully talked into a crowd-pleasing dance recital. 

Sitting in front of the Frosty box alone, my sorrow surrounded me and filled me with self-pity.  All the things I missed most about my husband were represented by that stupid box. His love of life, his adoration of silliness, his ability to be completely in the moment, and his constant attempts to keep me laughing. My world was so empty and joyless without him. 

While I sat contemplating how awful my life had become since Phil’s death, I absently reached over and pushed Frosty’s button. Even through my tears, I could not suppress the smile that Frosty’s song brought to my face.  It was as if Phil was standing right in front of me, in all his holiday glory, telling me to wipe my tears and accept the joy the holiday season still offered. 

Spontaneously I recreated my husband’s holiday jig–that night, Phil and I danced together, right in the middle of the kitchen.  I could see his big smile and feel the warmth of his love with every note that the silly toy snowman warbled.  Plopping down in my seat at the end of the song–breathless and a little surprised–I felt a glimmer of joy for the first time in months.

The next time “Merry Christmas, Darling” came on the radio, I knew I needed to make peace with my inner Scrooge. As the opening chords played, I sat quietly and really listened.  This time I heard a new message:  Phil and I can no longer physically share the same couch on Christmas morning, but the memory of the many precious moments we shared over the years is mine forever. 

In the years since his death, I have come to realize that I can have Christmas with Phil in my dreams for the rest of my life.  There are still days when my heart aches with the need to feel his touch, and I often find the holidays to be bittersweet. Nonetheless, whenever I feel my despair growing, I counter it with a holiday jig and the love of the man who can still make me smile. 

Reach Michele Neff Hernandez at widowsbond@sbcglobal.net

Last Conversation With Son is Deep, Loving

By Yvonne E. Lancaster –

Coming home was a tough time of day.

It signaled the end of the occupational work day, and the beginning of the personal work evening…preparing dinner, doing laundry, taxiing kids, whatever else kept me going until 11 p.m.

My 5 p.m. homecoming blues had often been softened by seeing my oldest son Brian’s familiar dark blue Chevy Citation sitting in the driveway.

His bumper stickers read: “Free the Beaches” and “Save the Whales.”  My heart was always warmed to know I’d raised a son who was a caring person.

As I deftly balanced grocery bags, a trick I’ve learned over the years, Brian sat snacking at the kitchen table with the newspaper opened to the comic strip section.

“Hey Mom, what’s up?”

“Not much, Sonny Boy,” I replied, ruffling his thick blond hair that had made people downright jealous for the last 19 years.

Brian helped put the groceries away, checking out all of the goodies.

“How’s school going?” I asked.

“Alright.  We’re getting psyched-up for exams.  Ugh!” He held up a jar of pickles.

“How come you’re still buying so much food?” he said.  “You’re forgetting I’m away at school.”

“No, Sonny, I’m remembering that you pop in two or three times a week with your friends.  Actually, our grocery bill has inflated.  You’ve forgotten you have a teenage sister and brother who are human eating machines.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he said, reconsidering.

“How are they, Mom?” he asked.

“They miss you, and I do too.”

“I miss all of you, too,” he said slowly.  “But, after I graduate from the Mount, there’s a possibility I can come home before I go to Southeastern.”

“That would be great, Brian.  It’s not the same without you.  It’s an adjustment period for all of us with you away,” I said, my voice trailing off.

“Is everything really alright with you?” I asked.

“Well,” he hesitated before beginning again.  “Between studies, the job and girls, I’m not sure which is worse,” chin in hand, his elbow resting on the table.

“Remember that personal and educational plan we worked out for you?”  I said.  “Well, maybe you should review it,” I said, looking at him from the corner of my eye, trying not to sound like a mother.

“It’s tough out there,” he said.

“Yeh, I know it.  Life truly tests the soul,” I said.

Darkness began to fill the kitchen the kitchen.  I switched on the light and decided to have some tea.

“Gotta run, Mom.” Brian gathered his books, his jacket and an apple.

“Why so soon?” I asked.

“I promised to give a friend a lift.   Her car has been in the shop.”

“Oh,” I said, trying not to show too much disappointment.

“How about dinner and conversation on Saturday?” he asked.

“Sounds good, Sonny.  My treat.”

We hugged and kissed goodbye.

As my head left his broad shoulder, I couldn’t help feeling the years that the years had gone by too quickly.  How could he have become a man so fast?  Wasn’t it just yesterday that he laid his head against my shoulder?

As I watched him leave, I kept the door open, letting the December coldness inside.  My old mother’s heart ached for simpler times; my new mother’s heart felt pride and joy in seeing him become an independent young man.

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“Thanks, Brian.  I love you, too.  Always know we are here.”

He smiled with renewed confidence and waved. His boyish grin found a place deep within my heart.

The next time I saw Brian was five days later. He was in a coma and died, after a tragic car accident caused by a drunk driver.

It’s OK to Laugh… and Other Hints for the Holidays

By Tom Zuba –

My 18-month-old daughter Erin died suddenly on July 18, 1990.  Had she lived, we’d be preparing for her 20^th birthday this January 2.  Even though I had grown up aware that children do die - my own baby brother Danny died when I was just 6 years old - nothing prepared me for my daughter’s death. 

I was ill-equipped and ill-prepared as were most, if not all, of the people in my circle.  That first holiday season, and the next, and even the next were difficult for my wife and me. I wish someone had handed us the following information.  It might have made the journey a little easier.  That is my wish for you.

1. Remind yourself that you will survive.  You will.

2. Think about what will bring you the most peace. 

* Keeping all traditions in tact? 

* Tweaking some traditions a bit and adding new ones?

* Throwing out all the old traditions and starting new ones?

* Flying to Florida and completely skipping the holidays this year? It’s okay to do that.

3.  Don’t expect anyone to mention your deceased loved one by name.  Believe it or not, that’s your job.  People will look to you to determine whether or not it’s safe to talk about the deceased.  A few subtle ways to do that:

* Serve/bring your deceased loved one’s favorite holiday dish - talk about it!

* Bring a favorite picture - pass it around. Work it into the dining table centerpiece.

* Bring a favorite memento - a book, a poem, a watch, a piece of jewelry - share it after dinner.

* Have your loved one’s favorite music playing in the background - tell the story. 

4. Plan a special evening for close family and friends when you REMEMBER.  Ask everyone to bring a favorite photo and write down a special memory.  Set time aside to sit in a circle and share the photos and stories.

5. Remember that it’s okay - it’s even healthy - to cry.

6. It’s okay to stay in bed…you will get out, when you are ready and able.

7. It’s okay to smile or even laugh, a bit.  You’re not being disloyal.

8. Buy yourself a gift.  Wrap it.  Write a note - to you - from the deceased.

9. Be gentle.  Most of all be gentle with yourself.  You are doing the best you can.

10. Light a candle.  Hope.

Tom Zuba can be reached at tom@tomzuba.com or through his website: www.tomzuba.com

Pain, the Unwanted Gift

By Bernie Siegel, MD – 

At workshops, I frequently ask people if they would like to be free of all pain, emotional and physical. However, I tell those who sign up for what they think will be a gift to take my phone number with them so when they experience the problems associated with feeling no pain, they can call and cancel the supposed gift.

Think about lepers and diabetics with peripheral neuropathy who are losing their limbs because they cannot feel infections or injuries. Then think about our feelings and emotions and how important it is to respond to them. I grew up with a mother whose advice about every problem was always the same: “Do what will make you happy.”

She taught me to deal with feelings so today I have happy depressions. When I am hungry, I seek nourishment, and when I feel gnawing unrest or other painful emotions, I seek the changes in my life which will resolve the unhealthy and painful feelings. Mondays we have more heart attacks, suicides, strokes and illnesses. Perhaps if we responded to our feelings and changed our lives or attitudes, Monday would not threaten our health.

I experience pain but I do not suffer. To me, pain is a necessity, if I am going to define myself and my life; suffering an option. Suffering relates to the emotional needs of the individual which are not being met. When the pain has no meaning and does not lead to healing of the person’s life, the individual suffers greatly.

We have to realize that life is a labor pain of self-birthing. When the pain is something we choose to experience to help us grow, it hurts far less than the meaningless pain imposed upon us by others, including health care provider’s treatments and prescriptions.

I work with people’s drawings, and two people draw may the same treatment, with one showing it as hell and the other as heaven. If surgery is a mutilation and the drawing of the operating room shows a black box with a patient in it but no one caring for them, versus a life-saving gift from God showing flowers and the surgeon caring for the patient, the post-operative recovery will demonstrate the difference. I have done major surgery upon people who awaken and say, “I have no pain. I am a little sore.” I explained to the nurses to please stop writing, “Patient refuses pain medication” in their chart and write that the patient had no pain.

Studies reveal that when you put your hand in a bucket of ice and keep it there as long as possible, you will keep it in the ice longer if loved ones are standing by your side than if you are alone. You’ll probably keep it there even longer if your dog is there. In one study, women who were given loving care during child birth had half the number of Cesarean Sections and a fraction of the need for epidurals than women given good technical care but shown no compassion during labor.

I also know from personal experience with a back injury that when I was operating, or painting a portrait, two activities where I lost track of time and was being loving and creative, I was not aware of my pain. When I stopped either activity, I needed to lie down due to the pain I was now aware of. I think any activity that makes you lose track of time is the healthiest state one can ever be in.

A few years ago, I was visiting a neurologist friend’s office. In a darkened examining room was a woman who had a severe migraine headache and was awaiting transportation to the hospital. I went in to talk to her and asked her, “How would you describe the pain you are feeling?” She answered, “It’s a burden, like pressure.” If she were my patient, I would have asked, “What else in your life fits those words and is a burden causing you pressure?” Instead, I did some guided imagery with her to alleviate the burden and pressure in her life.

I then left her in the dark to rest. A few minutes later, the office nurse came in to tell me the woman’s headache was gone and she was headed home. “And by the way, the burden is her marriage.” I have had others answer with words like draining, sucking, failure, road block. Then they say, “Thank you,” and walk off with a smile of enlightenment on their face.

It is also important to realize people hear you in coma, under anesthesia and while asleep. As my patients awakened after surgery, I would say, “You will wake up comfortable, thirsty and hungry.” It worked so well many of them gained weight after surgery because they were always hungry.

Major abdominal surgery can be done under hypnosis and even acupuncture. To me, this simply reveals the power of the mind to control pain and how personal a sensation it can be.

I do not blame the patient or deny the many painful syndromes that require medications and various anesthetic therapies, but I am saying that one cannot separate the sensation from the individual and their life and beliefs. Two people with the same affliction do not necessarily experience and suffer the same degree of pain.

As I said earlier, when we see life as a labor pain of self-birthing, the pain becomes meaningful and at that time is no longer seen as a curse. For some, it becomes a blessing because of how it redirects the person’s life to find nourishment for their body and soul.

But when we are experiencing pain because of a prescribed treatment or a family telling us what we must go through to not die, we are in big trouble. I find support groups are very helpful because the natives are able to share with each other and not be told what to do by the tourists.

Let me close with a poem I received several years ago:

Nine months seems like a long time

I watch my body change

Tired I sit staring out at life

I live within my mind

Books and music transport me beyond my body

Nine months finally pass

I give birth to my child

All the discomfort and pain is now justified

 

Chemotherapy and radiation

Twelve months seems like a long time

I watch my body change

Tired I sit staring out at life

I live within my mind

Books and music transport me beyond my body

Twelve months finally pass

I give birth to myself

All the discomfort and pain is now justified.

– Bernie Siegel can be reached through his website, www.BernieSiegelMD.com

Survivors of Suicide Day is Nov. 22

National Survivors of Suicide Day was created by U.S. Senate resolution, through the efforts of Sen. Harry Reid of Nevada, who lost his father to suicide. Every year, AFSP sponsors an event to provide an opportunity for the survivor community to come together for support, healing, information and empowerment.

AFSP’s National Survivors of Suicide Day links simultaneous survivor conferences throughout the country and internationally — each local conference site is organized independently, but they’re all connected through a 90-minute broadcast. This unique network of healing conferences helps survivors connect with others who have survived the tragedy of suicide loss, and express and understand the powerful emotions they experience.

When is National Survivors of Suicide Day?

It’s always the Saturday before Thanksgiving. The 10th annual conference will be held on Nov. 22, 2008. The broadcast runs from 1-2:30 p.m. EST. Some conference sites also choose to add local programming before and/or after the broadcast.

Which cities participate?

A continually updated list of participating conference sites can be found here. If there isn’t a site in your area, please consider organizing one. All of the information you need to get started is right here. And if there is already a site in your community, just send an email to the contact person listed — they can always use more help.

How can I watch the 2008 broadcast on my own computer?

The 90-minute program will be available as a free webcast from 1-2:30 p.m. EST on Nov. 22, 2008. Click here to register.

What To Say When Someone’s Parent Has Died

By Annette Gonzalez –

My parents died within five months of one another.  This was a most difficult time in my life, and I was looking to family and friends for strength and comfort. 

At my parents’ funerals, people would say things to me that were of no comfort.  In fact, some of their words made me feel worse.  I’m sure that these people did not want to be insensitive; it’s just difficult to know what to say.  Sometimes the right words of comfort elude us.  I believe at times, it is appropriate to say nothing. 

I remember people telling me what a good life my father and mother had led, how they were in a better place, and that their time had come.  I didn’t want to hear any of these observations, even if they were true statements.  I wanted my father to live forever; I wanted my mother to live forever. 

If you feel the need to say something to someone who has just lost a parent, I hope the following two lists of comments will assist you:

Five Things to Say

* I understand that you are in pain. Let me know if I can help you.

* No matter how old your parent is, I know the death is difficult.

* Even though your mother/father was elderly, I understand that you always want him (or her) to be around for a longer time.

* Even though your parents were sick, we are almost never prepared for the reality of the death.

* Take your time in grieving; there is no time limit. 

Five Things Not to Say

* He (or she) was old.

* He (or she) had a good life.

* His (or her) time had come.

* This too shall pass.

* You will get over it in a couple of months

No one knows the depth of the loss, even if one has lost a parent.  We should all be aware that our comments can console, or add to the pain, so we should think before we speak.

Reach Annette at annetted.gonzalez@yahoo.com.

Gratitude Journal Brings Grieving Mother Relief

By Debra Reagan –

There came a point in my grief over the death of my son Clint when I became so tired of being tired. I began to search for something that would offer a bit of relief. I purchased a small notebook and began keeping a daily gratitude journal. Every day, I tried to find something to write in my journal.

Most days, at first, I was just grateful that I had made it through another day. As time went on, I began to find small things of which I was truly grateful. I began to see that I had received many blessings. These were blessings that I would happily give back if I could turn back the clock, but they were blessings nonetheless.

It seemed that as my journal grew, so did my strength. I began to look forward to logging my gratitude in my journal. I suppose my focus was changing and my pain over the loss was being replaced with my appreciation of those around me. This felt right for me.

At one point, I expanded my journal by adding a section where I could record events that had brought me brief moments of happiness. I wanted to determine if there was a pattern to these moments. I longed so much to be happy again. My dear Clint wanted everyone to be happy.

It has been awhile since I began my journal and I continue to take one day at a time as I search to find what is right for me. I accept that my new normal will always have a level of the pain because of our great loss; I want to find ways to carry this loss. I want Clint’s life to also have a legacy of love, joy and happiness. The tears still come, but sometimes now smiles come too. Those smiles represent the love and precious memories.

My husband once asked me if I would do it all again. I knew what he meant. He was asking me if I would marry him again and have our two beautiful sons if I knew this would be the outcome. In the depth of the pain, I must admit I paused and wondered what person would ever choose to go through this anguish? But then the answer came: If avoiding the pain meant avoiding the love, then I would choose the love with all the strings attached. I am grateful for this love.

I am grateful for the past and the time we shared as a family. I am grateful for many things in the present:  my family and friends, the special connection I still have with Clint. I am grateful for my faith and the future, because I believe I will see Clint again.

Reach Debra Reagan through her website, www.clint-reagan.memory-of.com

The Promise

The Promise

By Genesse Bourdeau Gentry —  

Your birth brought me star shine, the moon and the sun;

my wishes, dreams, gathered ‘round my little one.

My life became sacred, full of promise and light

wrapped up in the child who brought love at first sight.

 

The years of your living filled with laughter and tears,

excitement, adventure, some boredom, some fears,

but ended too quickly, ahead of its time

the loss so horrendous, such heartbreak was mine.

 

But from the beginning, one thought rose so clear:

never would your death erase the years that you were here.

I would not be defeated or diminished by your death;

I would hang on, learn to conquer, if it took my every breath.

 

For if your death destroyed my life, made both our lives a waste,

‘t would deny your life’s meaning and all the love you gave.

I vowed that years of sadness would change, with work and grace,

to years of happiness, even joy, in which you’d have a place.

 

Memories of you, like shining stars in the patterns of my soul,

are beacons flashing light and love, and with them I am whole.

In your honor, I live my life, now living it for two;

Through all my life, you too will live - you lived, you live, you do.

 

Genesse Bourdeau Gentry

from Stars in the Deepest Night-After the Death of a Child 

 

This poem has appeared in The Compassionate Friends’ quarterly magazine, We Need Not Walk Alone, as well as TCF chapter newsletters. Reach Genesse Gentry through her website, www.afterthedeathofachild.com.

All I Wanted For Christmas Was … My Family

By Audrey Stringer –

How much did I love Christmas? I would start my Christmas shopping in July of each year. I was the social convener of the century, organizing party after party. And, of course, a real tree was mandatory. I loved the smell of a Christmas tree and loved touching the needles. And my collection of Christmas ornaments was huge. There were Christmas ornaments with my children’s names and ones we created together when the children were young. At our house, we decorated the tree together as a family, listening to Christmas carols and drinking eggnog.  

The death of my husband, Rhod, changed all that.

The pain in my heart was so big, I wished I could go to sleep on the first day of December and wake up a month later. It was two years after my husband’s death before I could enter the menswear department at the store; every sweater, every shirt reminded me that I had no husband to buy for.

The sadness was so encompassing that even the hint of joy made me feel guilty. If I was letting go of grief, for even a second, was I also letting go of the memory of Rhod?

I struggled with resentment, too.  I found it very difficult to be around family and friends who were happy about the holidays. I spent the first Christmas after Rhod’s death with my son and his family. They were excited about the holiday season, and my daughter-in-law had done a great job decorating the house and baking special treats.

They had many gifts for me. Everyone tried to make it a typical Christmas, with the family traditions, as if nothing had changed.  There was a pretense that everything was normal, that Rhod was just on holiday somewhere.  He wasn’t, of course, and I was angry with him leaving me. I also envied my son for his full family.

I realize now that my anger, resentment and guilt were all part of the normal grieving process that is somehow heightened by the holidays. And I’ve discovered some ways to cope more successfully.

For one, I create new traditions. Insisting on the same rituals only served to remind me of my loss. I started approaching Christmas differently. I bought all new decorations for the tree, choosing a different color scheme - gold and purple. I had fun putting angels on the tree with my grandchildren. For several years, we celebrated Christmas on Boxing Day. Changing the date seemed to take the emphasis off the holiday season. I also planned some holiday trips, which gave me something exciting to look forward to.

For several birthdays, Valentine’s day and Christmases after Rhod died, I tried something new: treating myself to a memorable gift. I bought myself a pair of diamond earrings that I had wanted before he died. I remember him fondly when I wear them.

I also remember Rhod by participating in special projects during the holidays. For example, I donated to the Stained Glass Window Fund at our church in Rhod’s memory. Now, when I am in church, it helps when I gaze up at this beautiful window and silently thank God for having Rhod in my life.

Focusing on the needs of others will help you immensely during the holidays. Not only does it divert your natural preoccupation with grief, but also replaces feelings of powerlessness with feelings of purpose.

I have mentored a young widow for two years. Her husband died in an industrial accident after only one year of marriage, and now she was suicidal. After much persuasion, she agreed  to go for a walk with me for an hour once or twice a week. It made a big difference during significant holidays. I shared the pain of suicide survivors like me, and she listened. Our walk, and talk, didn’t make her pain go away, but I think the connection helped her. I know it helped me.

Reach Audrey Stringer through her website, www.astringofhope.com

Stillbirth: ‘We Knew You Before You Were Born’

By Judith O’Reilly –I love my children. All four of them: there is one I cannot hold. Not true. I hold him in my heart. I just cannot hold his hand in mine. He would be eight today.

Two days before he was due to be born, he stopped moving. I did the things you do, ate vanilla ice cream for which I had no appetite, climbed awkwardly into a hot bath, dribbled water onto my still belly, fell silent, thought: “Fuck and buggery.”

My husband drove me to hospital. I spoke. “I’m sure it’s fine, but I can’t feel the baby move.” The midwife took me in, laid me down, wired me up, turned off the light. She cold-gelled and swept the veined mound with ultrasound. I thought: “Now’s the time to wave, baby.” No wave. She could not find a pulsing beat in the grainy black and white. I thought: “I shan’t ask for a picture then this time.” She said: “I’m going to get someone else to have a look.” I thought: “That’s not what you’d call a good sign,” as the door shush closed behind her.

A brief pause before an older woman came in. Kind. Experienced with bad news. Sweep and look again to find death, tragedy, horror, and desolation. She leant in towards me, said her prayers for the dead: “I am very sorry to have to tell you . . . ” My husband and I clung together as if our world had ended. Our world had ended. I can tell you the exact sound a heart makes when it breaks. It sounds like a wolf. Both of us heard it.

If you have a stillbirth, they do not cut you up, rip out the babe, sew you up, and send you away, almost whole again. Lick split. Instead, they say, “Don’t swallow this,” and hand you a torpedo; connect you to a drip and “start you off.” They say: “This isn’t going to hurt,” and lie. “We’ll break your waters,” and take up a crochet hook but not to make a table mat. “Let’s give you morphine. Usually, we don’t do this.” The morphine helps but not enough. “Not long now” and “Push” and “Stop” and sixty hours later: “Well done,” and you see how your life could have been.

My baby boy was beautiful. These babies often are. My baby boy was dead. Stillbirth can be like that. Lying on a paper blanket, the bones in his skull all pushed around, misshapen. The dead, they do decay. Yet, when I felt his head push out from me, he had felt wet, warm, and wonderful. Don’t look now. The skin, already flayed from his neck, came off at a too tender touch. I do not know the colour of his eyes but his fingers, tips tinted in scarlet, folded to hold my finger. The first and last time I held his hand in mine.

My hand splayed on his chest, his, left hand curled round my little finger; my thumb tucked in the other. I felt along the romper for his feet, the curve of his calf, the better to remember his body. We had time with him, but not enough; I kissed his rosebud mouth, but not enough; I showered him in tears, too many.

I know how death smells. We lit candles in tins. One for vitality. It did not work. We took endless photos of a subject who never moved. As my husband slept for an hour through the London night, I sat with my baby, told him about Christmas and birthdays and jungle animals and Northumberland which his father loved and where we holidayed each New Year. I swear he heard me. Then the smell got too much and we buried him. I have the bill yet. Keepsakes are hard to come by when a baby dies.

Supply of a small white coffin and transport:

• Fee: £150
• Extra mileage: £80
• Gravediggers: £60

They were toothless. The gravediggers, standing too close and anxious to get on with the job, leaning on their spades as we buried our future. In his coffin we put a teddy bear (cruel of us to bury a teddy), photo of a kiss, crucifix (I have its mate), tulip, and a letter. Hardly room in there for the baby. We printed the letter on the order of service for the funeral. It said: “We knew you before you were born and we wouldn’t have missed a moment of our time together as a family. Wherever we go in life, you will be with us and part of us. You will always be the little blond-haired boy running alongside us on a Northumberland beach and the sound of your laughter will always fill our home. ”

No reason for the death. As the hospital report said: “No malformations or obvious infection.” Often the way. His heart weighed 19g. Not a heavy heart. Mine weighed more. No medic in rubbered hands can weigh a mother’s love though. The fact my husband touches me reminds me not to die and he pulls me through the anguish of the days and nights and days. And we whisper a promise to each other that we will not compromise; we will think differently; do what it takes to strive for happiness together.

From the book Wife in the North by Judith O’Reilly. Reprinted by arrangement with PublicAffairs (www.publicaffairsbooks.com), a member of the Perseus Books Group. Copyright © 2008.

Judith O’Reilly was the education correspondent for The Sunday Times of London, where she also reported on politics and news, and worked undercover on education, social, and criminal justice investigations. She is a former political producer for ITV’s Channel 4 News and BBC2’s Newsnight. A freelance journalist, she started her blog, www.wifeinthenorth.com in 2006. She lives in England.

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