Tag: Child Bereavement

Children are resilient

Family photos of The Charlesworth Family

I want to start this by saying I’m no expert on grief. I’m no expert on bereavement. I’m no expert on childhood bereavement. But what I am an expert on is my child. My child who, at the age of 10, watched as her beloved father grew steadily weaker and more ill because of COVID-19. Who watched as her father walked out of our house to an ambulance accompanied by three paramedics. Who then never physically saw him again. Just think about that for a moment. It’s not fiction. It’s real. This is what happened to my beautiful, clever, amazing 10-year-old.

One of the very first things that was said to me in amongst all this carnage was “children are resilient.” It was said in a way to make me feel better, to make me feel that she would be ok despite our world crumbling around us. It wasn’t meant with any malice at all, because fundamentally children are resilient in a way that is different to adults. They are far more black and white, they are far more pragmatic, they see the world in a different way to us. But over the last two and a half years, this phrase has come back to haunt me time and time again. Because I can’t help but wonder if we are actually doing children a disservice by using this phrase and immediately telling them and their families how resilient they are. Yes, they might be, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t suffer, that they don’t feel pain, that their lives aren’t ridiculously changed forever, that they aren’t ridiculously changed forever. And quite simply, this is what has happened to my daughter.

She was a relatively carefree 10-year-old when the pandemic came into our lives. She was never meant to have been an only child, but after Mr C’s cancer we didn’t even know if we’d be able to have a child, and then after my miscarriage, we decided to just be thankful for the child we did have and that was that. I’ve wondered on more than one occasion how different her experience of bereavement and grief would have been had she had a sibling to share the pain and the loss with. It’s one of those “what if” questions that should never be asked and will never be answered.

And while I say carefree, she hadn’t always had it easy. She’d had to watch me hit rock bottom at the age of eight. She’d had to watch my nan’s health decline due to Alzheimer’s from the age of six (just six weeks before the diagnosis, she’d still been having sleepovers with my nan and baking cakes). She’d seen the usual marital arguments that happen. But, overall, she didn’t really have that much to worry about in her life. We tried to make as many memories with her as possible, we knew that she would only be a child for so long and that we needed to make the most of our time with her. I will be beyond grateful for the rest of my life that we took this approach and have a wealth of memories and photos to look back on.

But as the pandemic seemed to grow in its severity, the biggest worry and challenge I thought she was going to face was that of isolation, of not being at school, of not being able to go to dance lessons, of not seeing her friends and just being stuck with two adults in the house. But I didn’t worry too much, because children are resilient… Little did I know what she was actually going to face. I will never, ever forget the early hours of 30 March 2020 when she woke up to hear her father struggling for breath, me making a 999 call and seeing the utter panic and desperation I felt. Yes, I tried to say calm for her but in that moment I’m sure she saw it. She knew. And then, in a reality that will forever pain me, I had to leave her on her own when the paramedics arrived because they needed me. My 10-year-old had to sit on her own in our lounge, whilst knowing that upstairs people were trying to save her father and the only comfort she could get was via my mum on the phone because no-one could come in our house. But that’s ok right? Because children are resilient.

The next three weeks sort of passed in a blur. There were days we didn’t make it out of our PJs. There were days we’d have cake for breakfast and brownies for lunch. There was the day a week before he died when I had to sit her down and tell her that he was very poorly (understatement of the year) and might never come home. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I remember saying to her. “Yes, you’re saying daddy might die” was her response. Pragmatic. Real. She was bloody amazing. And then the Skype calls came. I didn’t do the first one with her because I wasn’t sure what he’d look like but having done that one, I knew she’d be ok seeing him. Each day I would ask if she wanted to talk to daddy and her response was always “well, I’ll talk to him today because he’s here today isn’t he and might not be tomorrow.” I told this story when I was on a panel at the UK Commission on Bereavement “Bereavement is everyone’s business” report launch and you could hear a pin drop. I saw members of the audience crying. It hit me then. Just how much I’ve come to accept what we went through because we were living it. How I’ve probably downplayed our experience because it was ours. And yet when other people hear it, they consider it heart-breaking.

But. The attitude and philosophy that my daughter adopted during that final week kept me going, because if she could do it, then so could I. And then the fateful day came. The call came. Hope had gone. He was going to die. She was actually about to become a child whose father had died. My biggest fear had been realised. Again, we did a Skype call and this was our chance to say goodbye. I can still remember her saying to him “I’ve not really got anything else to say to you now, I haven’t done much, I’ll go talk to nana and come back in a bit” (my mum was sat on our driveway at the time). Because let’s face it. Children are resilient. This was just something else she was dealing with.

And let’s be honest. She didn’t really have a choice but to deal with it. We were living in the middle of a global pandemic. Her father had died. I couldn’t make this any better for her. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real. Both of us had to deal with it. But unlike me, she didn’t cry. For weeks, if not months, she didn’t cry. She queried this with me because she didn’t understand why not. “Everyone grieves differently, please don’t worry about it” was my reply. It was all I had. The day of the funeral, she didn’t cry. She stood in the crematorium, did a reading with me, and didn’t cry. Shock. That’s what she was experiencing. Shock. I didn’t really realise it at the time, but like I say I’m an expert on my child and now I can say she was in shock. She was in shock for such a very long time. My amazingly brilliant, resilient child had experienced pain that no child should ever experience. She not only experienced loss, but went on to experience isolation, a lack of physical contact, her mother falling apart and secondary losses. Yet all the while people kept telling me that she’d be ok. Because children are resilient.

What I hadn’t really realised at the time and didn’t really realise until this year is how she aged overnight. Not just mentally, but physically. Her eyes took on a sudden weariness. She looked older. Yes, partly because she was growing up, but also partly because of the trauma she went through. And I realised this in the simplest of ways this year. We went to Florida for three weeks; it was our treat to ourselves after the heartache we’d gone through. We did a day trip out of the parks one day and she asked me for a cuddly toy as a memory, before then I couldn’t tell you the last time she asked for one. On the coach back to the hotel, she cuddled that toy. I snapped a photo and sent it to my sister. “She looks so young” was her response. And that was it. That was the moment I saw it. Our three weeks in Florida enabled my daughter to be a child again, to not have a care in the world and ultimately, to regress. She got back a little bit of her childhood on that holiday. I cried on the plane on the way home, partly because I felt I was leaving Mr C there but also because I felt I’d got my little girl back. She had been given the space and ability to be a child again. It was a momentous feeling. I wanted to keep her like this forever.

But back to reality we came. She said something to me a couple of weeks later after a difficult few days and it just winded me. “People don’t ask me how I am anymore, it’s been over two years, I’m supposed to be ok with it now aren’t I?” Because time is meant to be a healer, isn’t it? But sadly, the misconception that exists because we’re “trained” to believe that children are resilient is that they don’t suffer for any length of time. That they just bounce back from whatever comes their way. That they don’t experience pain in the same way. That grief doesn’t affect them. Without question it does. And it’s something that will be a part of them forever. I wonder how we can change that, because in my opinion it needs to be changed. Unless you’ve witnessed it first-hand, you have no real idea of what grief, trauma and pain can do to a child.

I won’t talk about all the ways I can see that she’s been affected and what it’s like for her because that’s her story to tell and I don’t want to divulge it. Maybe one day, but not now. Not while she’s living it. But what I can tell you as her mother is that she is 100% affected by her loss. That she is 100% struggling to work through and process what has happened to her. Losing her hero. Losing her protector. Losing one half of her history. And quite simply, why wouldn’t she be? It doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, it just means she’s human. It just means that she’s experienced one of the most awful things that she possibly could, and she needs to be allowed time and space to work through it. She needs love and care. She needs people to ask her how she is. She needs to talk about her dad. She needs to know that all of how she is feeling is ok.

And interestingly enough, from my perspective, it is this that I believe will build her resilience and help her as she goes through the teenage years and adulthood. Needing help doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, that she’s mad, that she can’t cope or that she’s weird. It just means she’s human and vulnerable. And I will be there with her on every step of this journey. I am so grateful for the child bereavement charities that I’ve spoken to who have given me guidance, who have supported her and will continue to support her.

But most of all, as her mother, I couldn’t be prouder of her for the way she has responded over the last couple of years. It’s not been easy; I’d be lying if I said it had. But I hope that she’ll retain the human and vulnerable elements to her as she gets older, because they’ll be two of the most valuable qualities she’ll ever possess. I hope that her experience doesn’t define her but instead helps shape her. To help her go into adulthood retaining that realistic and pragmatic view on the world. To truly understand that being resilient doesn’t mean that you don’t find things hard. That you don’t suffer. That it’s ok to need help now and then. And without question, I know that if she takes this into adulthood, it’s something that her dad would be very proud of her for doing too.

Goodbye 2021

If 2020 was the year of shock, numbness and surrealness, then 2021 was the year of reality. The year of trying to adjust to our “new now” (I don’t like the phrase “new normal” as who is to say what is normal anyway?) I should have been writing this blog in New York. Our first overseas trip just the two of us, the prospect was both terrifying and exciting. But just over three weeks ago I made the decision to cancel, the reality was that everything about it was adding additional stress and worry, rising case numbers, change in testing regulations, closure of activities in New York. Need I go on? Because this is reality. I am still trying to adjust to widowhood and solo parenting while living in a pandemic. COVID-19 hasn’t gone away.

But what is different about the end of 2021 compared to the end of 2020 is that I consciously made a decision to avoid stress. I just don’t need it. I don’t need to be putting myself through it. I think back to this time last year. I crashed on 27 December, it was all I could do to get up each morning and when I did, I pretty much just laid on the sofa. Mr C’s Memorial Bench was installed on 29 December and I had to summon the energy to get off the sofa to see it. Because I’d run and run and run to get to Christmas. I’d done so much. I’d tried to do very personal keepsake gifts for his immediate family. I’d tried to make everything perfect for our daughter. I’d tried to honour him in every way I could. But do you know what? It didn’t make him come back. I didn’t get to Christmas Day, get a pat on the back and get told “well done, he can come home now.” Reality hit. I’d got to Christmas, put myself under so much pressure and for what? I was quite simply mentally and physically exhausted. I couldn’t go back to work. I had nothing left to give.

This was how I went into January 2021. Exhausted. And then reality give me a real slap in the face. One of my most loyal, closest friends who had done so much for me after Mr C died lost her partner to COVID-19 on 2 January. Two days into the New Year. I felt helpless. I couldn’t bear to see her. Because to see her would make this real. To see her would be to see the tears in her eyes and know that there was absolutely nothing I could do to take her pain away. This wasn’t meant to happen. Nobody else I loved was meant to go through this pain. I had to tell my daughter that once again the pandemic had taken someone from our lives. Someone who had made such a difference to my friend’s life. Who had put the sparkle back in her eyes.

And then reality and the unthinkable happened again a couple of weeks later. I received a text asking me to give my colleague a call. It was a little odd as I’d only spoken to her that morning and wasn’t working, but I still did it. She had to break the news to me that one of my colleagues had been killed in a road accident. He was just 29. I thought back to the first meeting I’d had with him after I returned to work following Mr C’s death and the compassion and kindness he had shown me. How on earth could he have died in such a senseless way? His partner is in my immediate team at work. She is one of the most selfless people you could ever hope to meet. Simply lovely. Again. I felt helpless. I remember walking into my lounge after the call and my daughter asking me why I was crying again. I wanted to make something up. I couldn’t bear to tell her the reality that yet again somebody else I knew had died young. All you want to do as a mother is protect your child from hurt and pain, and here I was again telling her just how unfathomable life can be at times. How reality really can suck at times. But we had the conversation. Because this is what reality is. I can’t shield her from it. I can’t shield her from pain.

It’s why we have such an honest relationship. Because I’ve worked out that she deserves honesty. For a child of 11, she has been exposed to so very much. It breaks my heart. And while I don’t tell her everything, we do talk about so much. Because our reality has meant we’ve had to, we can’t shy away from pain, hurt and suffering. We talk about the fact I have counselling. Because over the past 21 months, I’ve spent 11 of them in counselling. It’s made me look at myself. It’s made me question a lot. And it’s also given me answers and helped me begin to come to terms with my reality. But nearly a year in therapy? I’d never have expected this. Even though I know how beneficial it is, the reality is that it’s still hard to come to terms with needing it in the way I have. To help me survive and be able to live a daily life. And despite the dialogue on mental health changing, it can at times be slightly taboo to talk about it and be open about being in counselling. To the point the fact I was having it was used against me at the start of the year.

I don’t hold it against the person who said it to me, because the reality I’ve come to accept in 2021 is that there is still a lot that society doesn’t understand about grief, mental health and life in general. I had a conversation at work recently about how society as a whole tends to focus on the negative, what you haven’t done, what you could do better etc… You hear the phrase “can I give you some feedback?” and instantly bristle because you assume it’ll be bad. To say “I’m having counselling” can, in some instances, cause judgement. The perception is you’re not right. You’re not good enough.  

But do you know what? 2021 has seen me become ok with that. I’ve come to accept that I will never be good enough for everyone. I’ve come to accept that there will be things I do that people can’t understand. Because that’s reality. But equally, I judge and do it to myself. I will automatically talk about everything that I’ve not been able to do since Mr C died. Because isn’t that what we’ve been taught to do? Focus on the negative? I’ll tell you I’m not as efficient as I once was. My brain doesn’t work in the same way. I’ll walk away rather than fight for what I believe in because I can’t handle stress. I don’t have as much patience or tolerance. I forget things. I buy presents for birthdays and Christmas and worry that they’re not good enough, but the truth is I’ve simply run out of energy at trying to get everything right. I have mum guilt like never before. I haven’t achieved as much at work as I’d have liked. I don’t call or message people enough. I haven’t been as good a friend as I might have been before because I don’t put as much effort in.

Yet this is where the counselling has helped and the Emma at the end of 2021 compared to the Emma at the end of 2020 tells herself to wind her neck in. Because I need to acknowledge that I’ve achieved a hell of a lot this year. I deserve to feel proud of myself. Whatever anyone else thinks or says. That is the reality. I have launched my own blog that has not only helped me but has also helped others. I organised my late husband’s Memorial Service which gave so many people the chance to say goodbye to him. I’ve learnt how to show my vulnerability. I’ve continued to work. I’ve kept a roof over our heads. I’ve organised home improvements. I’ve pretty much done everything we used to do as part of a partnership single-handedly. I can now go into supermarkets again. I’ve become an ambassador for Widowed and Young. I’ve taken my daughter away, to friends, to festivals, to theatres. I’ve given her new memories. But more than that. I’ve somehow got out of bed on days when I don’t want to. I’ve still put one foot in front of the other. Every single day. My daughter has not gone without love. There has not been a single day she hasn’t felt my love even when I’m in the pit of despair. This is my reality that I need to focus on more. What I have done. There will always be people who are quick enough to tell me what I haven’t done or should have done differently. But I need to have more faith and belief in myself. To remember what I have done. What I have achieved.

I’ve been reminded so much of this throughout this month. In the run up to Christmas, my daughter said “I just don’t understand why this Christmas is so much harder than last year.” We spoke about how last year we were in shock and survival mode. Whereas now we’ve spent the whole year coming to terms with the reality that her daddy really is gone. He’s never coming home. We will never spend another Christmas with him again. And that’s why it’s so much harder. Because it’s real. As each day passes, our reality and life without him crystallises. I listened to her repeatedly tell me she was over Christmas. I watched her sit on the sofa and refuse to move. I’ve just had to cuddle her because there was nothing else I could do to help her. But Christmas Day came and the punt of an idea I had for her present changed everything. She smiled again. She laughed. She sang her heart out on the karaoke machine. Yes, Christmas Day resulted in me being absolutely exhausted again because of the energy I’d needed to put into helping my little girl, but seeing her happy made everything worthwhile. I achieved that. I helped her get through it. And this just reinforced the reality that I’ve had to come to terms with in 2021. The ability to accept the rough with the smooth.

I can’t lie. I have very mixed emotions saying goodbye to 2021. The first year since 1974 that Stuart Charlesworth hasn’t been alive for any of it. Since 1996 that he’s not physically been a part of my life. A year which has caused so much new heartache and pain. A year which has seen relationships break down. A year which has seen me fall apart repeatedly. Yet it’s also been a year which has seen me smile, laugh, dance and hug more. It’s been a year that has seen me start to think about my future and my new reality. For the first time in such a long time, I can answer “I’m ok” and mean it when people ask me how I am. That’s not to say I’m of the view that life has become all cupcakes and rainbows. It hasn’t. I know as I go into 2022, my rollercoaster will inevitably dip at times. But I also know it will rise up too. Because I have plans. I have ambitions. I’m dreaming big. I have the best people around me. The hope and reality I’ve adjusted to in 2021 has taught me that I can get through and do anything if I really want to. Because I’m going to make sure I remember one thing in 2022…

I am good enough.

To Mr C on Fathers’ Day

Well Mr C. This one has come around quick. How can we possibly be on our second Fathers’ Day without you already? She only had 10 with you alive, yet somehow, she’s now done two without you. It’s wrong. It’s all so very wrong.

Because without question, being a father was something you always wanted. Only being one for 10 years isn’t right. Your original life plan was to be married with a child by the age of 26. Falling in love with someone nearly seven years younger than you was always going to make that a challenge. But I knew. From the very early days of us dating, I knew what a doting and wonderful father you would be.

Sadly, 26 was the age you were when you were diagnosed with testicular cancer. The chemotherapy and the surgery meant that having a family was no longer a certainty. We had no idea whether it would happen for us. As it was, it took nearly 18 months and a number of medical tests before I fell pregnant with her. But we both loved her from that very first scan when we saw her wriggling around. You were made up. You were about to get everything you had ever wanted.

From the moment she was born, it was evident how strong a bond you were going to have. How much you adored her. And as she got older, that bond only strengthened. It was a joy to watch. To see you finally come into your own as a father. Firm but fair. And while she was never meant to be an only child, I know that we made the right decision for us as family not to have any more. After losing our second baby, we just became even more grateful for all we had. We hadn’t known if it would be possible at all, we just decided to count our blessings. In fact, I like to think that you’re now looking after our angel baby while I stay here looking after our first baby.

Yet it makes me so angry and sad that you’re not here to see that beloved first baby grow up. At all you’re going to miss out on. That you’ve not seen just how unbelievably amazing she has been since you were rushed to ITU (although in the pragmatic style of her daddy, she’d tell me that if you had been here, she wouldn’t have needed to be this amazing). She’s changed and grown up so much, I wish you were still here to see it. She’s now getting excited about the next phase in her life and starting secondary school in September, but I’m so nervous about it. You should be here for this; I don’t really know how I’m going to do it without you. I just know I’ll be trying to do everything I can do hold it together because a) our baby is growing up and b) you’re not here to share it with us.

I’m also so angry and sad at all she has lost. At all she’s continuing to lose. Her daddy, her protector, her partner in crime, her innocence, her security, her family. We’ve brought her up to know that life isn’t always cupcakes and rainbows, but I wish she hadn’t had to have it confirmed in such a heart-breaking way. At the risk of saying something ridiculously childlike, it’s just not fair. Because it isn’t. None of this is. The memories of you and her together throughout the years keep cropping up on Facebook memories, you really were as thick as thieves. And this month is the worst because of all the Fathers’ Day ones. They make me smile and cry at the same time. There was just so much love between you both. I so wish I could have bottled it for her.

I think back to the first Fathers’ Day without you last year. It was me who struggled and cried more than she did. I even queried whether this was “normal” with others on the Widowed and Young Facebook page. Why was I so upset? Why wasn’t she? But this year is different, I can see that. Even the build-up has been so much harder for her. Last year the two of us were cocooned in our own little world. This year she’s seeing more people, she’s seeing more children with their dads, she’s been in shops where Fathers’ Day is advertised everywhere. “Why do they do that?” she asked me “Why is it everywhere? I don’t have a dad, I don’t want to see it.” It breaks my heart to hear her say that because she does have a dad. Granted, you may not physically be here, but she does have one. And I promise you Mr C, with everything I have, that I will never, ever allow her to forget you. To forget how loved by her daddy she was.

But it’s not just her feeling the pain of you not being here, I’m missing co-parenting and your role as a father too. She went on a school trip this week, you know how much I hate her doing these. How paranoid I am and how sick I feel whenever she goes on a coach. You were the one always there to placate me when I’d leave her and cry. This week I went back to the car by myself. All I wanted was a hug and for you to tell me everything was going to be ok. The fabulous Widowed and Young contingent were there for me though, I wasn’t totally alone. And I ran away to the office to distract myself, even managing to get lunch bought for me to save me cooking when I got home (Wednesday’s win!)

Yet despite my feelings and how much I’m hurting and missing you, she continues to be my priority. I will always put her first. I will always make sacrifices for her. I need to help her to learn to live without you. To continue to live her life without her daddy. To help her not feel guilt, because despite her young age, she does. She feels guilty that for several of the Fathers’ Days you had, that she was away from you either at dance shows or rehearsals for them. I’ve tried explaining that seeing her do something she loved was just as rewarding for you as being with her, but she’s a child. She can’t comprehend why. She doesn’t have the emotional maturity to understand it. She doesn’t understand how that can be possible. She sees things very black and white. But it’s true. You adored seeing her on stage taking after you with performing. You were so unbelievably proud of her; I can only hope that she knows that, and I can only promise you that I will continue to tell her.

But it’s not just performing. I simply see so much of you in her. I don’t know if it’s always been there and I never noticed it before because you were here, but it’s there now. I’ve said before that I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve said “she’s her father’s daughter” but she really is. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, she stands up for herself, she rolls her eyes, she loves a board game, she’s always singing, she’s crazy at times. But these are all things she’s watched and learnt from you. Without a shadow of a doubt, you have had such an influence on her. It’s testament to your role as her father. I just hope you knew what an amazing job you were doing for all those years.

And I strongly suspect you did. You were the one who came up with the idea to take her to a special place every year on her birthday and document her growing up with a photo. You were the one who created a special email account for her and emailed her throughout the years, I’ve read some of them now but I can’t read them all. They make me cry. They make me miss you even more. Because they’re not me telling her how much you loved her, they’re you telling her. It’s such an unbelievable legacy to have left her, and, when the time is right, I will absolutely share them with her. She will always know that love directly from you. I doubt I ever said it when you were alive, but thank you for doing both of these things.

They will be invaluable because as the months have gone on, there are little things she’s forgetting about you. There are little things that just aren’t as prominent for her any more even after only 14 months. I’m doing all I can to keep you alive in her memory but one of my biggest fears is that these memories will continue to dissipate over time. We talk about you all the time, I encourage her to write down memories so she doesn’t forget and can look back in years to come, I make sure when we’re with family and friends that they talk about you too. You will be part of all our lives forever. I’ll make sure of that. It’s not without its challenges, but I won’t give up on it. I won’t allow myself to give up on it.

Yet I know over time, the challenges will probably get harder. Relationships and friendships will change. The memories will fade more. She’s going to grow up, be less reliant on me and be around me less as she lives her life. She’s going to go on and do great things (of that I’m sure) and right now I’m scared as to where will that leave me. We won’t be able to watch her to do this together and as cute as he is, the dog really doesn’t provide the same level of conversation and have the same level of pride that you did! But in all seriousness, the future does scare me more than ever now. What it will bring for me. Who I’ll become when I’m not needed in the same way as a mother and don’t have you here with me. The one thing I am sure of though is that I will always, always be immensely proud of our little girl. I am sure that as you watch over her, you will be immensely proud of her too. Because after all, no matter how old she is, she will always honour you and be daddy’s little girl. Just you watch.